


Amnesia

by Foreverwholockedme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock Angst, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 03:35:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 37,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1495075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foreverwholockedme/pseuds/Foreverwholockedme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock suffers amnesia and John is there to piece together the great mind to its original form and goes through all the hardships to do just that. While helping Sherlock regain his memories, he fabricates some of his own to give Sherlock memories he never had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“...No. Alright, stop it now…”_

_“No! Stay exactly where you are. Don’t move.”_

_“…Alright…”_

_“Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do that for me?”_

_“Do what?”_

_“This phone call, it’s…it’s my note. That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note.”_

_“Leave a note when?”_

_“Goodbye, John.”_

_“No. Don’t---“_

That was the last conversation John ever had with Sherlock. There was so much he wanted to say to him, there was so much he wanted to do with him. That was his best friend, that was his…his reason for living on so many occasions. He didn’t even get to say a proper goodbye to him. He had to watch, like all of the other bystanders. He had to watch the world’s on Consulting Detective jump to his death from the roof of St.Barts. He tried to go to him, he tried to get one last look at him, and he was trying to confirm his death because in his mind, Sherlock wasn’t dead. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t die, not when there are so many crimes to solve, not when there’s a chance to make another archenemy, not when John Watson was still breathing.

_“He’s my friend…please let me through, I’m a doctor…”_

He was using that excuse again. He was using his profession as an excuse to see his best friend plastered on the cold, hard concrete. It was hazy, it was a hazy mess of doctors and civilians running to see the same thing he didn’t want to. They pried his hand off of the body, and he couldn’t fight them. He saw the blood and he couldn’t fight them. They managed to get him away from the crowd and into the nearest taxi. They told the cabbie to send him to wherever he needed to be. Not wanting to go anywhere but not wanting to stay either, he gave up in defeat.

_“Please…221B…Baker Street…”_

The cabbie responded in a curt nod and they started to drive away. John couldn’t help but watch as they carried his friend away from the crimson stain on the grey sidewalk and into the hospital. He thought he wouldn’t have to witness this again.

_“I’ve seen men die before- and good men, friends of mine. I thought I’d never sleep again…I’ll sleep fine tonight.”_

_“Quite right.”_

But he wasn’t right was he? He did witness a friend of his die. He won’t be able to sleep again. Not without Sherlock. Not without that mad man waltzing around the flat with his experiments, not without his violin playing at ungodly hours of the night, not without the many times he snuck into John’s room to comfort him from nightmares, and not without him shooting the house down out of boredom.

_“No, Sherlock…this is the one time you weren’t right…I won’t be okay, I won’t…What’s John Watson without his Sherlock Holmes?”_

What was 221B without its resident? What is Mrs. Hudson without her “son”? What is Greg without his colleague? What was Mycroft without his little brother? What was anybody without him?

_“Nobody…I’m nobody…”_

That’s what John was. He was one of the things that killed Sherlock, called him a machine, told him that he attracts danger wherever he goes, and said awful things to him when he needed him most. What kind of friend was that? Not a very good one. The doctor sank back into the seat of the cab and allowed the driver to take him to his home, his empty home.

When he returned he half expected Sherlock to be waiting at the door like a puppy eager for its owner to return.

_“Do you understand now?”_

John would have no idea what he’s talking about.

_“I was telling you about the case, John.”_

John would realize that he was talking to himself again. He didn’t realize that he left the flat and thus his ramblings continued. John would roll his eyes and sigh.

_“No Sherlock I have no clue as to what you’re going on about because I wasn’t here.”_

Then he would spend twenty minutes to the next half an hour explaining his deductions of the case again so John could form his own opinion on the matter. He laughed. Sherlock’s mouth would run a mile a minute if no one stopped him or if he didn’t stop to breathe. But that added on to his charm. John didn’t know anyone else like Sherlock. He never would.

He sat in his chair, staring at the vacant one across from him. The one that should’ve had the other male seated in it, or huddled, depending on how he was feeling. John could count all the times he found Sherlock staring at him, watching him perform his hopelessly dull and pedestrian things. He would watch John type up their case on his blog and question him relentlessly.

_“What did you name the case this time?”_

_“Why did you name it that?”_

_“Why must you type like that?”_

_“Are you done yet?”_

_“John can you stop and make some tea?”_

_“Are you listening anymore?”_

John would answer them all. Sometimes he would ignore Sherlock because he wasn’t in the mood to talk to him. He regrets those times he ever ignored Sherlock. He knows that Sherlock was ignored a lot and that sometimes he really wanted someone to listen to him, and that one person was John.

_“That’s the frailty of genius John; it needs an audience.”_

John closed his eyes and listened to the soft, baritone voice in his head. He nodded slowly.

_“Yes Sherlock, you’re right. You’re always right.”_

John was his audience and that’s all Sherlock needed.

Going to sleep was hard that night. He didn’t like how quiet it was in the flat. There was once a time when John would pray for one night of silence in the flat, where he would welcome it. Where he wanted Sherlock to stop playing that violin and go to sleep like a normal person, now there was nothing he wanted more than to hear Sherlock’s violin, and to have Sherlock playing it until three in the morning. Now he wanted the noise.

_“Now what are you in the mood for tonight, John?”_

John squeezed his eyes tighter so whatever tear that was fighting him to come out, wouldn’t win.

_“Anything you play tonight is fine, Sherlock.”_

And if he tried hard enough, he could hear the faint tune of Brahms’ Lullaby playing in the distance.

It wasn’t a few weeks after he died, John got a call. It was from Saint Barts. He almost wanted to let it go to voicemail. He didn’t want anything to do with that place anymore. But he couldn’t, he just couldn’t. He prayed for a miracle and maybe this was it. Swiftly he picked up the phone and answered it.

“Hello?”

“Is this John Watson?”

John hesitated at first.

“Yes…yes this is he…”

“Are you free to come down to the hospital today?”

Brows furrowed.

“For what reason?”

“Mycroft Holmes asked for you. He said that it was something about his brother.”

“Brother?”

“That’s what he told us, and that he would like for you to come.”

What is this? What could Mycroft possibly be talking about? He had to find out.

“Uh, yes, I’ll be there shortly.”

“Excellent, see you soon Mr. Watson.”

The woman hung up. John stared at his phone for a few more minutes. This couldn’t be…

Not wasting another moment, he grabbed his coat and walked out of the door.

 

 


	2. Happy Reunion?

John made it to the hospital in record time. He almost threw his money at the cabbie and then dashed into the building. What was Mycroft talking about help with his brother? Sherlock is dead; Mycroft should know that, as he loved to claim, he is smarter than Sherlock. It’s understandable that it was his brother, little brother in fact and that he did care about him more than probably anything else in the world but there was nothing he could do to bring him back. Wasn’t John doing the same thing? Wasn’t he living in extreme denial about his death? Wasn’t he imagining his flatmate every day and night, doing everything that he would usually complain about in the morning? John’s thoughts were interrupted by a woman dressed in a nurse’s uniform walked up to him.

“John Watson?”

“Uh…yes, I was called here by a Mycroft Holmes?”

She smiled. Her painted red lips reaching both ends of her face.

“Right this way.”

As they walked to the destination, John decided to get some information out of her.

“So, has he told you anything?”

She only laughed again and shook her head.

“Whatever I told you over the phone was all I’ve been told and all I know.”

That sounded like Mycroft, vague and mysterious. John was beginning to think that it ran in the genes.

“Here we are.”

They stopped in front of the room with the numbers one hundred twenty-one on it. She opened the door but didn’t go inside. She stared at the man expectedly.

“Are you going in?”

John blinked.

“Yes, yes, sorry.”

She watched him stand in the doorway and walked away to perform her duties. There was Mycroft, standing there, resting some of his weight on his cherished umbrella. John has never seen him without it. Mycroft’s eyebrow rose at the sight of John.

“I see you decided to come.”

“Well when you get a call from the hospital stating that Mycroft Holmes needs assistance with his brother, what else are you gonna do?”

Mycroft gave one of his little smirks and then glanced at the floor. John prepared himself for whatever it is he would say in reply.

“John I—“

“No, I’m not done.

Mycroft smirked.

“If I look behind you right now and see Sherlock’s dead body or a weird Frankenstein creation on that bed, I’m walking out and I’m…I’m gunna…”

“John, Sherlock didn’t die.”

John staggered back, as if being dealt a troubling hit.

“What did you say?” He spoke in a hushed tone of anger.

“I said my brother’s demise hasn’t happened yet.”

He walked over to the bed and threw back the curtain that was surrounding the cot. There occupying the bed was Sherlock, who looked to be sleeping. His hair was a mess; it was unruly and looked to be going every which way. The only thing that kept it from swallowing the pillow was a big white bandage wrapped around his head stained with red on the side of it. John also saw that his left arm was in a sling. Thank god he’s right-handed. John looked back at Mycroft.

“What happened?” That anger was being mixed with a whole palette of emotions.

Mycroft waltzed over to Sherlock and looked at him while talking to John.

“He survived.”

John clenched his jaw. Now wasn’t the time for the smart-ass side of Mycroft to come out.

“Mycroft…”

The older man rolled his eyes.

“Are you aware of the Lazarus Project, John?”

“Sorry, the what?”

“The Lazarus Project. It’s what Sherlock and I came up with.”

“There’s something I do not understand here.”

“I’m not surprised…”

One angry glare from John got Mycroft talking again.

“We both knew that Jim Moriarty was going to kill my brother. It was Sherlock who informed me that he was going to kill you lot if Sherlock chose to live and not go through with his death. So Lazarus was born. Sherlock was going to jump off of St. Barts and instead of dying; he would fall right onto a giant inflatable platform. He would then undergo quick cosmetics to look as if he had cracked his head open on the sidewalk and would position himself on the floor to look the part. Then my workers would come and act as if they were whisking Sherlock away to the morgue and you would all be safe. However, that didn’t go according to plan, as you can see.”

John really didn’t want to ask but he needed to.

“…What happened?”

Mycroft inhaled.

“He certainly did crack his head open. You see, he still had to jump off the roof in order for this plan to work. One of my workers got complacent and they left a rubbish bin too close to the platform and Sherlock hit his head on the way down. We thought the plan was done for but then that would result in all of you dying and I know Sherlock wouldn’t be able to handle the deaths of the people he holds dear so I had to…continue with the plan…”

John’s anger was back again.

“So you threw your brother on the sidewalk, knowing that he was seriously hurt?”

“I’m not proud of what I did but I had to do it.”

“So let me guess, I saw his injured body bleeding out on the sidewalk and then your workers whisked him away to the hospital so he could get the medical care he needed.”

“Quite right.”

John’s fists were throbbing to punch this man in the face, British government or not.

“What if it had been too late for him, hm? What if Sherlock died?”

Mycroft looked into John’s eyes with a hidden sadness.

“Then that would be my burden to carry.”

John scoffed, not caring about Mycroft’s guilt at the moment and pushed past him to sit on the bed. Staring at Sherlock’s sleeping form made John feel things, some things he wanted to, or things he didn’t. Without looking at Mycroft he asked, “How badly was he hurt?”

“His wounds will heal, though there is a slight defect…”

“How slight?”

“Wake him up and find out.”

John rolled his eyes at Mycroft’s cryptic talk. He gently shook the younger man and watched as his eyes fluttered open to reveal those grey-blue eyes he thought he would never see again. John unknowingly beamed at his sight. Miracles do come true.

“Oh thank god you’re alive, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed. He looked John up and down and opened his mouth. What he says crushes John in so many ways.

“Who…Who are you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if anyone reading this could give this a fic rec, that would be well appreciated! Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

John’s eyes widened.

“What?”

Sherlock asked again, “Who are you?” he looked at Mycroft “You as well. I don’t know who any of you are.”

John looked over at the elder brother who was facing away. He couldn’t look Sherlock in the eyes. John wasn’t surprised; he was using everything he had to be this close to Sherlock. To the man who he thought died, the man he thought he would never see again, the man who didn’t remember him. Sherlock readjusted himself in the bed, sitting up to get a better look at the two strange men in his room.

“What are you doing in my room? I’m going to call a nurse in here to escort you out!”

“Sherlock, Sherlock wait.” John immediately tried to calm him down. It seemed to be working.

“My name is John Watson. We’re flat mates; we live on 221B Baker Street with Mrs.Hudson, our landlady.”

“I don’t have a flatmate. I don’t live on 221B, I don’t even know where that is!”

John closed his eyes and nodded.

“No you wouldn’t, would you?”

Sherlock’s lip twitched. John kept on.

“I’m an army doctor, I fought in Afghanistan. I was wounded in battle…”

“Why do I care?”

_‘I don’t know why would you care?’_

“I’m telling you all of this because you deduced it once. You do know how to do a deduction, right?”

_‘Don’t tell me that you can’t Sherlock; please don’t tell me that you can’t do what makes you special please tell me you can deduce who I am…’_

“I don’t know! I don’t know what’s going on, I don’t know who you are and I don’t care, frankly!”

John felt another part of his heart shrivel and die when Sherlock said that. He doesn’t care about John Watson, he doesn’t know who John Watson is and he doesn’t care. Sherlock Holmes can’t deduce. Sherlock Holmes isn’t Sherlock Holmes. John gave one more attempt at trying.

“This man behind me, this man is your brother. Mycroft Holmes, okay? He works for the British government; you would argue that he IS the British government.”

Sherlock seemed to calm down. He looked back at Mycroft and back at John with a blank expression. John thought that he was trying to remember, trying to figure out who they were. Go into his mind palace or something like that.

“Mycroft, John.”

“Yes Sherlock?”

“Would you please excuse yourselves out of my room? You’re giving me a headache.”

John was taken aback.

“What? Sherlock, no…”

Mycroft grabbed John by the arm. John turned to face him and was met with a sympathetic look.

“Come on John, no use in getting him upset.”

John hung his head in defeat and slowly rose to his feet. Normally it would take more for him to leave Sherlock in the state that he’s in but, Sherlock wanted him to leave. He’d given Sherlock a headache; he irritated Sherlock, who just came out of a semi-coma. He will leave, but not before he gets his last words out. He turned around to face Sherlock.

“Sherlock, please, remember. Remember who you are.”

_‘Remember who I am…’_

“Remember what you do, and remember why…”

John froze right there. He couldn’t get those last words out. He knew what he wanted to say, he just couldn’t say it. He wouldn’t be able to. He can’t say those words until Sherlock remembers him. Until he remembers his blogger, his best man, his doctor, his John Watson. He could’ve sworn he saw the man’s face falter for a moment. It looked like he actually cared for a moment, for a short moment. John just hoped that he listened. But then again this was Sherlock we were talking about, he never listens. Mycroft held the door open for him and once they were outside of the room, he closed the door.

“For a doctor, you sure are shoddy with handling with your patients.”

“Sorry, what? What is that supposed to mean?”

Mycroft started twirling his umbrella around.

“While you aren’t up to my league of intelligence, I’m sure you can see that Sherlock has amnesia, yes?”

John looked away and then back at Mycroft.

“Yes, I can see that. What’s your point? ”

“My point is that Sherlock doesn’t have a clue about who you are, and he probably doesn’t know who he is. When you rush in like that and start giving him all of this information, he is going to get overwhelmed and it will become too much for him to handle.”

“So what are you saying? Are you saying I should just let Sherlock sit there and not tell him anything about who he is or what we do? Is that what you’re saying? Because that’s what I’m hearing.”

 “I’m saying that you can provide him with the necessary information when he asks for it, which shall be fairly soon.”

“Why do you think that?”

That smug smile stretched across his lips.

“If I know my brother right, he will want to know everything he possibly can, amnesia or not.”

John just nodded and turned around to walk away when he halted, and then spun back around.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Mycroft raised his eyebrows.”

“Why is that I’m the only one that cares about him at all, that he’s like this? Why don’t you care? That is your brother last time I checked.”

Mycroft sighed.

“Like I told Sherlock before, caring is not an advantage.”

“So you don’t care that your brother can’t remember who you are?”

“Will caring about him get his memory back?”

John blinked repeatedly and gave a more defensive stance.

“I’d like to think so.”

Mycroft chuckled.

“Go back home, John. I’ll call you if anything happens here.”

John found himself marching out of the hospital with a million and one thoughts swirling around in his head. Sherlock has amnesia, Sherlock can’t remember. John has to help him get his thoughts back. And John Watson agrees, he will do anything to get his detective back…


	4. Ghosts

Upon his return to the empty flat, John sank down in his chair with a certain heaviness wracking his body.  He looked over at the couch and imagined his tall, lanky friend sprawled out on it, complaining about a case that they were on and how blatantly obvious the solution was it. John looked behind him and saw Sherlock waltzing into the living room with his blue silk robe and looking at John with the look that he wanted company but didn’t know how to ask, but John knew. John always knew.

But all he can hear in his head right now is that conversation he had with him in the hospital.

_“Who are you?”_

_“I don’t know who you are!”_

_“Can you excuse yourself? You’re giving me a headache.”_

John closed his eyes and took an inhale so deep that he thought his chest was going to burst. The man that John spent so long mourning for was lying in a hospital cot, unconscious. John imagined so many different scenarios on his way to Bart’s. He imagined Sherlock was sitting in the bed, fully dressed and fussing with the nurses who were only trying to make sure he was fit enough to leave. He imagined Mycroft and him getting into a hushed argument, probably Sherlock turning his worried brother away or him trying to convince Mycroft that he was perfectly okay and could return to 221b with John. He never imagined that Sherlock would stare at him with the look he had on his face. The reserved anger and confusion of seeing John, the frustration of being told that they were acquainted in the past and that they were best friends, but never seeing that person in your life. John was angry, but he couldn’t help but think about how Sherlock was feeling. People rarely do.

Hearing a familiar knock at the door, followed by the also familiar, “Yoo-hoo!” was Mrs. Hudson. She had that ever so cheerful and maternal smile on her face as she walked into the flat. She looked around the room and then her eyes glanced over to Sherlock’s stuff that was sitting on his desk, collecting dust. She shook her head.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been up here. I really should dust that and clean the place up a bit but…it’s just…Sherlock would have a right fit if I touched his belongings…”

John forgot. Besides Mycroft, John was the only other person who knew that Sherlock was still alive. Everybody else was kept in the dark. Part of John wanted to tell her, along with everybody else, but if she were to see Sherlock in the state that he was in now, he can’t bear to see how much it would hurt her. She loves Sherlock and John so much that they might as well be her own kids, they love her too and that’s why John is going to wait to tell her. But he doesn’t know how long the amnesia is going to last, or if it will ever go away.

“I know Mrs. H, I miss him too. I can’t bear to touch any of his stuff either.”

He saw her eyes getting teary. Her hand moved to her mouth to prevent her from doing something she didn’t want to do, it was probably so many things. John wanted to comfort her, but he was going through his own grief and he could barely stand that. Mrs. Hudson was the one to break that awkward tension, all the sadness leaving her face and the bubbly happiness returning.

“How are you John, you barely come downstairs anymore, are you eating? Do you need anything? I’m only doing this because you’re going through a rough time. Remember that I’m your landlady and not your housekeeper. “

John gave a bitter smile.

“I’m fine, Mrs. H, I know I haven’t been coming to see you and I’m sorry. I’ve been eating enough to get by.”

She shook her head in a scolding fashion.

“Rubbish. Come downstairs and we’ll have a meal together. It’ll do us both some good.”

John wanted to decline and to tell her to leave him to his self-wallowing and pity, but he didn’t have the heart to. She was only trying to help and to do what she thought would make him feel better. Remember, she’s the surrogate mother. He resigned to agree, and followed her downstairs to her flat so that they could do their best to enjoy the company of each other. And maybe John could at least pretend that Sherlock was going to return to home with his brilliant memory intact. That everything was going to be okay.   
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock was lying in his cot, trying to stop his infernal head ache from pounding away inside of his skull, when the man he remembered calling himself Mycroft walked into his room again. He groaned at the sight of the overly demure and posh man with his umbrella standing at the side of his bed. Holding the side of his head as if it were about to fall off, Sherlock slowly sat up, not trying to irritate his issue anymore and have it progress into a migraine.

“What is the matter? Having a bit of head problem? Do you need a nurse?”

Sherlock glared at Mycroft.

“I do not need any more people coming into my room to poke and prod at me as they please. You included. “

Mycroft’s lips pursed together.

“When are you going to understand, it IS my job to poke and prod at you, and to tell you the truth, I am far better than any of these nurses here.”

“What makes you say that?”

That smug smile came to his smooth lips and he started twirling his beloved umbrella. Sherlock watched with slight disgust at the man.

“Because I know you, that’s why.”

“I have never seen you before in my life…”

“Mycroft.”

“Pardon?”

“You were looking for my name, I could see your eyes darting back in forth for previous recollection of when you have heard it but it was not coming to your mind as quickly as you hoped. So I thought I would just tell you and save you the trouble, as I am so accustomed to doing.”

Sherlock’s brow rose at intrigue to Mycroft.

“Alright, Mycroft care to answer a few questions for me, since you and I go way back, apparently.”

“Oh you have no idea.”  Mycroft teased.

“That man who came in here, who looked so sad when he saw me, was he right? Do I actually know him?”

Mycroft looked him up and down.

“His name is John Watson, and why do you care? Last time I checked, you were completely indifferent to the man.”

Sherlock’s agitation rose.

“Do you get off on being so cryptic?”

“I should ask you the same thing.”

Mycroft was obviously taking pleasure in this. Sherlock, however, was in no mood for these childish games. After a short while, Mycroft finally opened his mouth to speak.

“Tell me Sherlock, do you really want to know the answer to that question?”

“Do I?”

Mycroft pulled out his phone, smirking at the screen of it instead of the person he was talking to. As he pressed the buttons on it, he answered, “I think you do and I’ll give you the answer to all the questions you have.”

Sherlock was unsure of all of this and doubted the man in front of him.

“How can I trust you?”

With those cold eyes flickering over to the gray ones, he simply uttered, “You can’t. But you have no choice but to trust me.”

“I do.”

“Yes.”

Sighing in defeat, Sherlock released the side of his head and laid back in the bed.

“Since I have no other option, where are we going?”

The low rumbling of Mycroft’s chest told Sherlock that he was laughing. Was he laughing at the situation, or was he laughing at Sherlock himself? Since he looked like a primped up prat, Sherlock thought that it was both.

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out…”

~~~~~~~~~~~  
After the surprisingly pleasant dinner with Mrs. Hudson, John returned upstairs after saying his goodnights. While it wasn’t a drastic change, he did feel a little bit of something being lifted off of him. Maybe this is what he needed, maybe all he needs is somebody to talk to, somebody who can distract him from the troubled thoughts of his friend…or was it more than that?

Trying his best to push those thoughts to the back of his head, he opened the door to his flat to find the one person he had been trying to move on from, the person who shooed him away at the hospital, sitting in his old chair and looking around the flat with unfamiliarity. John, still standing in the doorway, unnoticed by the curious detective had his mouth hanging open as an invitation to any lingering flies. He almost didn’t hear himself mutter Sherlock’s name. Said person snapped his eyes at the entrance to find the ex-soldier standing there. The grey eyes cutting into John’s with a burning intensity.

“Sherlock?” John said louder than before.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock squinted as if he couldn’t see John clearly, but John knew that wasn’t the case.

“I know you. You were at the hospital with…Mycroft…I think that’s the name. He told me that your name was…”

Sherlock looked down and his bushy brows furrowed as he tried to figure out John’s name. John stood there, still in the doorway, with the door wide open. His fists clenched as he tried to suppress every feeling in his body to shout out his name, to take Sherlock in his arms and tell him who he was, what he did, and how much he loved his work. But if he knew Sherlock, he knew that he would want to figure it out by himself, even if he never did in the end.

“J-John, is that it?”

John’s head slowly moved up and down. At least he got his name right, he could remember that much. Sherlock seemed satisfied with his correct guess and kept looking around the flat as if he hasn’t been living there for years. John had to ask, he had to get the elephant in the room out of the way.

“Sorry, what are you doing here? It’s not that I’m not happy to see you but…you’re not fully healed.”

The bandage was still on his head and his arm was still in its cast, as Sherlock’s left coat sleeve was not on. He tilted his curly haired head slightly as if he didn’t understand the question. His face was washed with a brief confusion before it returned to that stoic face.

“Mycroft put me here.”

If John had a pound for every time Mycroft placed Sherlock in the worst situations, he would be one rich man. He crossed his arms and was starting to get angry at the elder brother’s name.

“What do you mean Mycroft “put” you here?”

Sherlock looked impatient and rolled his eyes.

“He talked to me, at the hospital, and then he told me that the answers to my questions were here. He checked me out of the hospital and then dropped me off here and then drove away. “

_‘He ditched his brother who was suffering from amnesia in an unknown place?’_

John just felt a part of his mouth twitch. For all that Mycroft says, he sure has a weird way of showing his love and concern for his baby brother. It couldn’t have hurt him to stay until John got back? Pull him aside and inform him? John sighed. He understood why Mycroft did it. John was the only other person who knew that Sherlock was alive and of his condition, and as far as he was concerned, it would have to stay that way. Sadly, Sherlock was the secret between the elder Holmes and the ex-soldier.

“Brother of the year award goes to…” John muttered under his breath.

“Pardon?”

John shook his head.

“Sorry, I wasn’t talking to you; I was just…talking to myself.”

Sherlock gave him a funny look, but ignored the comment in his typical fashion. John sighed, he knew that this wasn’t going to be easy for either of them but John would go through all the troubles he needed to, for Sherlock. Speaking of the detective, he returned to his seat on his couch and continued staring around the flat as if he hasn’t done that enough.

“It’s pretty late, do you want to go and have a quick kip or something?”

Sherlock looked so lost and it just tugged at John’s heartstrings.

“What do you mean? Where will I sleep?”

“You…you live here, this is your, OUR flat.”

“Really, I live here?”

John nodded and Sherlock seemed to take it to consideration as he placed his good hand on his lap and stared at it.

“So then, where is my room?”

John gave another sigh, but not one of stress. It was of pity for Sherlock and himself and he mentally apologized because he knows how much Sherlock hates any pity being shown on him.

“Your room is this way, let me show you.”

He helped Sherlock up and led him to his room down the hall, Sherlock was walking slower than he usually would but John didn’t have the heart to rush him. He was observing everything, like Sherlock Holmes does. When they set foot into the room, Sherlock looked at the bed, and the papers and posters everywhere and then back at John.

“This is my room?”

“…Yes…”

“I’m guessing I’m not a very tidy person.” He smiled.

It made John’s heart skip a beat when he saw his smile. Sherlock rarely did it, and John didn’t blame him. Nobody ever gave him a reason to smile and then again, he would only save them for John and John loved to see them, especially when he’s had a bad day at work and came home grumpy and tired.

“No, you’re not. But that’s okay, we’re not all perfect.”

Sherlock’s smile softened, and then completely vanished. They both walked inside the room that hasn’t been touch since his “death”, nobody could bring themselves to go in there; it would be like disrespecting Sherlock. Sherlock turned around and said, “So I guess…I’ll go to bed now.”

John didn’t even realize he was staring at Sherlock with a light smile on his face until the younger man started talking to him. He snapped out of his daze and shook his head.

“Yeah, yeah, sleep would be good. Do you…need any help?” John asked hesitantly.

“No that’s okay; I…think I can manage.” Sherlock replied rather awkwardly.

John looked away, he knew that was a stupid question to ask, but he was so overwhelmed that his best friend, his flatmate, and his colleague was back, albeit he had a few defects, but he was back and that’s all that John needed. Noticing that Sherlock was waiting for him to leave so he could get changed, John turned to leave with his hand on the doorknob. He turned his head back around to say, “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stared at him a long while before he responded, “Goodnight…John.”  


	6. Chapter 6

_“Get down! Everybody get down now!”_

_John couldn’t see him, but he heard his commanding officer bark the orders to take cover. He wasn’t sure if everybody else followed the orders, there were some rebellious soldiers in his company who never listened to their commander, not even when their lives depended on it. John immediately released his rifle and laid down flat on his stomach, the coarse soil rubbing against his uniform. It was already hot, reaching ninety-five, and his helmet didn’t make it any better._

_“I SAID GET DOWN!”_

_He was yelling at the ones who already experienced fighting and thought that they were invincible because they’ve shot somebody. John knew that they were going to be the first to go. The brave ones die young, he thought as he heard them fighting with their chief, John had half a mind to get up and stop the shouting that could risk their hiding spots, but he was too late. He heard gunshots in the distance, and what sounded like bodies dropping._

_It didn’t sound like; he KNEW what bodies dropping sounds like, because he was the bloody doctor, meant in every sense of the term._

_The gunfire was rapid, nonstop, didn’t give him a chance to stand up and fight back. He heard another bullet get somebody._

_“GET DOCTOR WATSON, GET HIM NOW!”_

_John groaned, the sound of the bullets on both sides were deafening, and he knew that it was a matter of time before he would hear the sounds of grenades blowing everything in its way to smithereens. John hoped that for just one fight, he wouldn’t have to treat the bomb victims, too many things to reattach, greater risk of losing them, which happened. Only on what he would consider “bad days” though. He heard his name being called by multiple people, with a deep breath he muttered,_

_“Please God let me live.”_

_And he shot up and dodged as many bullets as he could, tried to bypass the others as they fell to the hard dirt, with their lifeless eyes staring right back at him, haunting him. He made it to his unfortunate patients, tended to them as quickly and effectively as he could. He helped one of the others who was only grazed by a passing bullet carry a half-dead solider to the nearby tent, but the next then he knew, the man standing in front of him blew up, the stretcher flying out of his hands like something out of a movie. The other side’s guns never ceased, and he saw everybody fall like dominoes around him, until he too, fell with the rest. His shoulder in searing pain, burning hot, bleeding out, mere minutes away from dying, he knew it._

_It wasn’t until he heard a familiar voice, all too familiar, a baritone voice shout, “JOHN!”_

_“Sherlock?”_  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
John shot out of the bed, covered in cold sweat, panting and frantically searching his room to get a sense of reality and where he was. He felt the tears coming, but no, not this time. He won’t let them come through, he was a soldier, and goddamit soldiers don’t cry.

But no matter what he told himself, it didn’t seem to work, he found himself crying anyway, the dull pain in his leg coming back and those awful memories of the army, and of Sherlock flooding his mind. John was tough, but it seems that he’s just becoming softer and softer with each passing day. He wasn’t even sure if he was fully awake, sometimes having such vivid nightmares does that to you. He reached out and touched his bed, that was real, and then his dresser, that was real too. He looked at himself in the mirror.  He was disheveled, but still real. There was only one more place to go.

He slowly felt himself creeping down the stairs, missing each and every step the creaked and made his way to the living room that was blessedly empty of anybody that lived there at the moment. He was surprised that Mrs. Hudson wasn’t hoovering or dusting, or setting the tea on the table next to his armchair. Well, maybe she deserves to sleep in, just this once. That’s not what he came down there for. He turned his head to the door that was slightly cracked, and started to tiptoe over there so he wouldn’t wake Sherlock.

He opened the door and saw that the detective was still fast asleep, surprisingly cuddling with his blanket and snoring lightly. John wiped away the excess tears and smiled faintly to himself as he watched the younger man sleep, it was rare. He didn’t know why but he was slowly reaching his hand out to caress something, anything, to let him know that he didn’t make this all up and truly lost his sanity to extreme grief. He rested his hand on the dark curls that covered Sherlock’s head and carefully ran his fingers through them, forgetting how soft they were and glad that they weren’t six feet under, with maggots and other creatures mussing around in his perfect locks. Then he trailed his way to those chiseled cheekbones that enraptured him so. He’s never seen anybody else with that kind of bone structure, but it fit Sherlock so well.

So ensconced was he that he almost didn’t hear Mrs. Hudson’s familiar knock and warning shout at the door. He had the door wide open, and he wasn’t prepared to resuscitate an elderly woman back to life in their flat if she comes down the hall. He quickly ran out of the room and cracked the door on his way out.

_‘Please don’t let Sherlock wake up. Not now.’_

John immediately grabbed the remote and then sat down on his chair and flicked the telly on. Mrs. Hudson just entered through the door as he got himself in a comfortable position. She stared at him with the bright smile on her face as she had her duster in her hand.

“Good morning, John!”

With his best attempt at a smile, he replied, “Morning Mrs. H.”

He did a double take and saw that she had his tea in one hand and a duster and the newspaper in the other.

“Mrs. Hudson, is that a duster I see?”

Mrs. Hudson looked down and then back at him with a nod.

“I thought it’s time for me to go and dust Sherlock’s room. If I know him well, he would hate to know that we’ve let sentiment get in the way of cleanliness.”

John felt his heart drop. Out of all things… why today?

She took John’s sudden silence as a signal that he didn’t want to talk.

“I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have brought him up. Still a touchy subject for you I see.”

She set his cup of tea down and then started to make her way to the room. John took a quick sip of his tea and then shot out of the chair to beat Mrs. Hudson to the door so she wouldn’t open it and see what was hidden inside.

“John, what’s gotten into you? And why is the door open?”

John always wished he had Sherlock’s talent for lying on the spot.

“Because I…I had to go in there one last time. You see…I miss him so much….”

Mrs. Hudson frowned and placed a hand on her cheek.

“Oh you poor dear.”

John had to play along, he hated doing it but he couldn’t let her go in there. John thought she was going to leave until he heard what sounded like Sherlock moan.

_‘Shit.’_

“What was that? Did that come from the room?”

She made a move to go around John but he quickly stopped her again.

“I’m sure that was outside.”

Mrs. Hudson looked at him like he was crazy but nodded in agreement.

“John I have to dust the room. It’s hazardous to your health if you keep going in there.”

_‘Oh Mrs. Hudson…’_

“Really, I’ll be fine Mrs. Hudson, go and attend to the chores downstairs.”

Mrs. Hudson didn’t want to fight with John, especially with the rough times he was going through, so she decided to leave it alone and then warned that she was going to come back and eventually dust. He waited until the door closed to let out the breath he wasn’t aware that he was holding.

“That was too close.”

And he heard Sherlock’s footsteps approaching the door.


	7. Chapter 7

John moved out of the way as he watched the detective walk out, eyes wide as if he didn’t know where he was, which he probably didn’t. He had a hand to his head and looked to be in pain. John figured that he was suffering from a headache. Hopefully it wasn’t anything serious. He walked right past John and found himself in the kitchen, standing there. John sighed and followed after him.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked up at him with puppy dog eyes.

“Yes?”

“Are you okay? Do you need something?”

Sherlock broke their staring and closed his eyes and winced as his hand pressed onto his head. John crossed his arms; maybe it was a headache veering on migraine. Sherlock has had them before but they were rare and they weren’t as painful as a migraine usually is. But this time he looked to be in serious pain.

“Head…hurts…”

John’s brows furrowed, and he moved to touch Sherlock, who pulled away from his impending touch almost instantly. John’s hand remained in mid motion as he took in Sherlock’s gesture. He supposed that while Sherlock was talking to John, he wasn’t fully comfortable being there, and John could understand that. John started walked to the bathroom and retrieved the bottle of Aspirin that he bought just in case of an emergency and made his way back over to the ailing man. He popped the bottle open and then took two pills out from it.

“Here, for your headache.”

Sherlock squinted at the two white tablets in John’s hand and then took them and swallowed it in one swift motion.

“Why don’t you go take a seat? I’ll go ahead and make you a cuppa.”

Sherlock gave John an unsure look but listened to him and sat down on his armchair. John watched him for a few extra minutes before he filled the kettle up with water. While it was boiling, he walked over to his chair and sat and stared intently at the man who looked so lost. At times it looked like he was trying to remember but then that spark in his eyes, the one that John loved so much, just vanished. He rested a hand under his elbow as he waited for Sherlock to say something, but apparently, there was nothing to be said. Sherlock can be such an introvert at times.

John was startled by the whistling of the kettle and quickly shot up to stop it, as it didn’t help Sherlock’s condition any. As John prepared the tea, just the way Sherlock liked it; he couldn’t stop thinking about how long it would be until someone else found out about Sherlock’s body. Mrs. Hudson was starting to get suspicious and would start snooping around pretty soon. He hasn’t heard from Molly or Lestrade in a while, but he knew they would turn up eventually. John wouldn’t even begin to think about what Mycroft was up to at his place, if he was anything like Sherlock, if not worse; then he would be conniving to do something that wasn’t going to be beneficial to anybody but himself and his little brother, but more so him.

The tea was finally done and so John slowly brought it over to Sherlock, who took it without looking at John. The doctor wished that he would look at him the way he used to, before the accident. Sherlock stared at the reddish liquid for a while until he took a sip, and then continued staring.

“Is something wrong?”

“Is this…is this how I drink my tea? I mean all the time not just right now.”

John felt his mouth slowly moving downward at the question but he had to get used to them because there was going to be a lot more where that came from.

“Yes, Sherlock, this is how you like your tea, with two sugars and a bit of cream.”

Sherlock seemed to be focused on his tea and continued taking small sips out of it. John moved to drink his own tea and immediately spit it back into the cup, as he forgot that it grew cold after not being touched for so long. He wasn’t in the mood for iced tea at the moment. He set the cup back down and then turned his focus right back to Sherlock, who seemed to be recovering from the headache he had earlier.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“Why did you have that headache earlier?”

“No reason.”

John rolled his eyes.

“Are you sure? It looked like it was genuinely painful?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

John wanted to press him further but he realized that he wasn’t as comfortable around John as he normally was, because this was a special situation. He just sat back in his chair and focused on the show that was on, which he didn’t much care for.

“If I tell you, can you promise not to…overreact?”

John looked around and then slowly said, “Yes….?”

Sherlock set his tea cup down and then started to explain.

“Last night, while I was sleeping, I…dreamed something.”

John was immediately interested in what the dream was he leaned forward and pressed his elbows on his thighs as he listened to Sherlock.

“What kind of dream?”

Sherlock looked like a child talking to his therapist for the first time. His head hung, and the arm that wasn’t in the cast was moving about on his lap so he wouldn’t have to gaze into John’s eyes.

“It’s hard to explain. All I saw were…flashes of….something.”

John mentally sighed, as much as he hated therapy with Ella; he seemed to be in her position at the moment with his friend.

“Can you…explain these flashes?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“That’s the thing, I can’t. I only see…flashes.”

A moment of silence passes before he speaks again.

“And then before I woke up, I thought I heard your voice, saying something to me.”

John’s eyebrow rose.

“What did “I” say, Sherlock?”

“I told you, I don’t know!” He was getting impatient. John gave him a moment to cool off and then continue explaining.

“I could barely make out what you were saying, but you sounded so…sad…”

John couldn’t believe this. Was Sherlock actually trying to remember, or was it just a subconscious attempt at a memory. Maybe Sherlock was only dreaming, and just confusing it with real life. John won’t know, but he hoped to find out. The conversation quickly ended when Sherlock picked his tea back up and started sipping from it again.

“Is that why you got your headache?”

Sherlock didn’t answer and John simply let him be and returned to the telly.


	8. Chapter 8

John and Sherlock spent their time in silence as they watched telly, well Sherlock wasn’t exactly paying attention to it, because he was more interested in his tea, or he was trying to understand his troublesome dream he had last night. Although he couldn’t see it, John was very worried for his flatmate, as he should be. He doesn’t know how long he can keep it up, hiding Sherlock in his room like some type of pet that wasn’t allowed in the building, listening about his friend’s painful attempts at remembering. And the most painful of all is having to see his friend struggle with not knowing or remembering when that’s what Sherlock was known for, that brilliant, big brain. The brain that John…

 _‘No stop it, that’s not what you’re supposed to be focused on. You’re worried about Sherlock’s wellbeing, you’re not gay, remember that.’_ He mentally shouted at himself. But was it really so bad to….admire…yes that’s the term, admire Sherlock’s traits? But as far as John was concerned, he’s not gay because he doesn’t like men, just the….

_‘ENOUGH.’_

John had to pause. He was really having an argument with himself.

_‘Jesus I need to get a grip.’_

His eyes darted over to Sherlock who was now invested in the television, guess that was because the news reporter said something interesting. Maybe it was a murder and Sherlock wanted to hear more about it, hopefully.

 A few more moments passed before John saw that Sherlock’s tea cup was half-empty and completely neglected as the owner of the drink was facing the television with his hands pressed under his chin and his grey eyes, that usually had a color tint to it was fixated on the crap telly that was on. John didn’t even know why he put it on, he was barely watching it, and the last thing he needed at the moment was to hear a crowd shouting their opinion on a man who insists that the child isn’t theirs. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind it though; occasionally he would look to John and ask, “Why is he denying the child is his? He has his eyes and nose!”

John smiled at the detective. At least he was entertained.  John remembered the cold tea and then moved to get up.

“Finished with your tea, Sherlock?”

Sherlock stared as if he forgotten about it but then nodded.

“Yes.”

As soon as John had the teacup in his hand, he heard Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps on the stairs.

_‘Shit.’_

As if someone was coming to kill them, John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and placed a hand over the younger man’s mouth so he wouldn’t make any noise.

“Shh, listen to me, Sherlock; I’m going to need you to be very quiet…okay?”

Sherlock looked visibly confused and John fought every urge to burst out laughing at the expression as it’s so rare on his face. He pulled Sherlock, rather harshly up the stairs that lead to his room and closed the door as soon as the main one opened. John and Sherlock were listening behind the door.

“Yoo-hoo!”

There were the two knocks on the door, Mrs. Hudson’s way of letting John know that she was entering the flat.

“John!”

John kicked himself for being such a rude ass to his landlady, but he had to do this. He’ll tell her…eventually…someday.

“Who is that?” Sherlock asked.

John pressed a finger to the soft lips and repeated what he said as they were running up the stairs.

“Shh, I promise, I’ll tell you later, just for now…hush!” He whispered loudly.

Sherlock knew that John was serious and nodded and pressed his ear against the door. John hated having all of these secrets and having to keep them to himself. He was never the guy that people spilled their deepest and darkest secrets to, it just wasn’t his style.

“John I just wanted to give you today’s paper, I accidentally gave you yesterdays!”

She gave her rather adorable chuckle.

“Silly me, I guess!”

_‘Just set it down Mrs. Hudson, and please…go have one of your herbal soothers or something.’_

Sherlock seemed curious as to what was going to happen next.

“Well, I’ll just set it down here on your chair for whenever you decide to come back downstairs and continue watching your shows.”

The door opened and closed and John couldn’t be any more relieved. Sherlock was staring at John, and the doctor knew that it meant that he had questions.

With a sigh, John pushed himself off of the door and then faced Sherlock.

“Yes?”

“Will you answer my question now? Who is that lady?”

John placed a hand on the back of his head and started to rub it slowly. This was difficult to explain, or was he just making it out to be difficult? He didn’t know and he didn’t care. Answering Sherlock’s question was important.

“That’s Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock. She’s…my…landlady.

“So what’s wrong with her?”

“Pardon?”

Sherlock spoke slower, because he thought John didn’t understand what he said.

“Why are we hiding from her?”

_‘Because you’re supposed to be dead, that’s why I’m hiding YOU.’_

John couldn’t say that to Sherlock, even if he did, not only would it wreck him to say it to his face, but then there would be so many questions that Sherlock would want to ask and they would probably be things John wouldn’t have the answer to.

“We’re hiding from her because…”

_‘All these lies are going to bite me in the ass one day.’_

“You’re not supposed to be here right now.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John knew how ridiculous he sounded but this was the only option.

“You’re supposed to be away, in another country, doing…important stuff…”

“Like what?”

“That’s not important right now. What is important is not letting Mrs. Hudson see you, okay?”

Sherlock was pondering this in his head, thinking about an answer. He finally agreed, much to John’s fortune.

“I’m not sure about what’s going on, but okay.”

John looked down at his watch and grimaced at the time. He was half an hour late for work thanks to all of this madness. John started to flutter about his room, getting his work clothes ready so he can hurry up and change and not be any later. Sherlock was standing there watching him with his eyes fixated on John’s.

_‘God now’s not the time to distract me with “that face”, Sherlock.’_

“Where are you going?”

“To work, Sherlock, I got to make the money somehow.”

Sherlock answered after a short bout of silence.

“Well why don’t you stay here?”

John felt like he just looked at a kick puppy. Sherlock was already uncomfortable in being in 221b, but besides Mycroft, John is the only other face he knows. John hated to leave him alone, but he wouldn’t be gone for long, and if Sherlock listens to him, nothing will happen.

“I can’t, I’ve already taken too many days off. I have to go in today.”

Sherlock looked down.

“Well what am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”

“Anything you want. Just don’t go downstairs to watch the telly, stay up here.”

“And if I need to use the bathroom?”

“You can go downstairs and use the bathroom. And if you get hungry, there should be a pack of biscuits in the cabinet. No tea.”

Sherlock nodded. Sometimes John felt like he was talking to a child, but it wasn’t John’s fault, and it wasn’t Sherlock’s fault either. Blame Moriarty for this. That’s what John is trying to do.

John dashed downstairs to get dressed, and then returned shortly with his clothes on, coming to get his jacket.

“I won’t be gone long, Sherlock. I’m sure you can manage.”

Sherlock’s head hung as he nodded grudgingly. He moved to sit down on John’s bed.

“Can I at least watch the telly up here?”

John gave a curt nod.

“Just keep it low.”

“Okay.”

John moved to the door and gave Sherlock a quick once over before heading downstairs. As he passed Mrs. Hudson’s apartment, he gave a quick, “I’m off to work now, see you later Mrs. Hudson!”

When the front door was closed, Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat with her arms crossed. She wasn’t mad; she was just…puzzled at John’s actions as of late. Not dwelling too much on it, she looked upstairs and muttered to herself, “I guess I can dust the room now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if it seems a bit dull right now, I promise it will start picking up pace in the next chapter!


	9. Chapter 9

John sat in his cab to work with an uneasy feeling. This whole thing was a bad idea, the flat is only so big, Mrs. Hudson was bound to find him soon, or Sherlock would do something and wander out of the flat or run into her or one of their other friends and John can only imagine their reactions. With a stressed sigh, John sank into his seat and placed a hand over his face. The cabbie noticed his passenger’s distress and asked, “What’s the matter, mate? You and your girlfriend have a spat?”

John spread his fingers apart and glared through the little slit where his eye was showing.

“If only that was the case.”

The cabbie knew that John’s reply was his cue to shut up and continue driving, which he caught and focused on driving.

_‘Don’t do something stupid Sherlock. I can’t afford to rush our landlady to the hospital when I get back.’_

~~~~~~~~~~

John thought that taking care of his patients would distract his mind, but all it did was make it worse. There seemed to be an abundance of head-related injuries in the office today. Little kids crying and screaming, holding their heads, and the mothers who didn’t know what the problem was because they were too busy worrying about their child’s over exaggerated cries and trying to figure out a way to get them to stop. Or grown men and women who either fell and hit their head, or they just woke up with a headache and decided to drive all the way down here to hear what they already know. John wasn’t even going to think about that one couple who both got head injuries because they wanted to try something…new…in their bedroom. Sometimes John wondered if everybody was just this stupid, or if there was a new virus spreading.

_“That’s because you’re an idiot. Don’t look at me like that, practically everyone is.”_

John remembered that from the conversation they had when they first met, during the suicide-murders. The awful time John went through after being released from service. The spiraling depression and loneliness he went through. The amount of times he looked at the handgun he had hidden in his drawer, thinking about all of the times he considered pressing it to his temple and pulling the trigger. He was going to do it that day, the day he ran into Mike Stamford and met Sherlock.  He owes Sherlock so much; he saved his life in so many ways. The least John could do was try and save Sherlock as much as he could.

He wondered what Sherlock was doing at the moment, probably still watching crap telly, hopefully he wasn’t screaming at the telly like he was so close to doing earlier. John played many scenarios in his head. He imagined coming home to find Mrs. Hudson standing in the living room, with Sherlock staring at her with his usual blank expression on, and the elderly woman looking like she’s about to pass out. Or another image of Mrs. Hudson screaming her head off and Sherlock standing there looking equally surprised, hell he even imagined Sherlock trying to hush her and scaring her even more by placing his hand on top of her mouth and trying to shush her.

John couldn’t help but laugh at that mental movie, but still, it would be preferable if none of that happened and John returned to find Sherlock sitting on his bed, maybe napping, which would be even better for John. Sherlock doesn’t snore loudly, if at all, and even if Mrs. Hudson were to go up there she wouldn’t hear anything, her hearing isn’t as sharp as it might have been years ago.

John’s message alert goes off on his phone, startling him a little bit. He fishes in his pocket and for a second thinks that it’s Sherlock calling him, but it couldn’t have been, he doesn’t know John’s number, and doesn’t have his mobile on him. He threw it when he was on top of the….

_‘Can’t think about that now….focus on right now, not in the past….’_

He looked at his screen and saw that the message was from Molly.

_“Hey John, been a while hasn’t it? I know we’ve all had to deal with…that…day at St. Barts in our own way. I just want to know if you would…like to hang out sometime. I can understand if you’re still upset about everything and say no, but I think it would help us if we actually talked to each other._

_Anyway, feel free to say no, or yes. I’ll leave you alone, sorry about my rambling._

_-Molly xx”_

John had half a mind to say no. He knew Molly meant well in her intentions, she always meant well. She was a nice girl who has a tendency to get pushed around by other people. But John felt like he didn’t have the time to go and see Molly (or he just wanted to avoid all contact from all of his friends.) Sherlock still needed him, and John needs Sherlock. Though he has been thinking that maybe he should just drop him off at Mycroft for a while. Just until Sherlock could remember a few things or John could actually get his shit together and help his best friend.

No, that was selfish of John. Sherlock was the one who was suffering, even if he didn’t know it. But wasn’t John suffering too? To spend so long thinking that his dearest friend was dead, that he jumped to his death in front of him, only to find that he planned that whole thing and kept him out of the loop.  John had to get a phone call from Mycroft, explaining that his brother wasn’t dead, just partially alive, only to come to his home to find his amnesiac flatmate standing there looking as lost as a child. Didn’t John have a say in this? Was he expected to just accept everything that’s happened? Dismiss it all as a dream? Act like none of it never happened?

The sad thing about this was that, yes, he was. He’s supposed to dance around his flat and do what he would normally do as if the “suicide” never happened and live his life. He was supposed to spend who knows how long hiding Sherlock from his friends, act like Sherlock was supposed to be dead, treat him like his and Mycroft’s dirty secret. He felt bad for Sherlock. Who knows how he’s feeling at the moment, being taken to an unfamiliar place and told to stay there with a stranger who says that you’ve always lived there, to struggle with remembering something as simple as a childhood birthday, and to be told that you can’t leave a room until said stranger comes back. To be treated like a….well John didn’t want to think of it this way, but he was being treated like an animal, a scared and confused animal, who probably couldn’t even remember his name. John doesn’t know what’s more stressful at this point, the army or this. At least in the army, his only instructions were to heal, duck, and shoot if necessary. This, this was a whole new type of battlefield, a different kind of war.

Looking back down at his phone, he unlocked it and started typing back.

_“Hey Molly, got your message. Sorry, can’t hang out with you today. I’m going to be busy for a while at work so I don’t know when I’ll be free, I’ll message you when I have a chance to grab a pint with you. Sound good?”_

Almost instantly, he got a response.

_“Oh that’s alright, that was stupid of me to message you anyway. Have a good night John, and message me when your schedule clears up, kay?_

_-Molly xx”_

John put his phone away and rested his chin on his hand.

“Whenever that’ll be….”

He looked at his clock. Thirty minutes more and he’ll leave and start job number two. It was just like he told Mycroft, there’ll never be a dull moment, right?


	10. Chapter 10

Mrs. Hudson was sitting in her chair, just finishing her herbal soother and letting the effects sink in. She was already starting to feel lighter, everything seemed to move…slower, and she was even feeling a bit peckish. She found herself laughing at nothing, or maybe she was thinking of something that was funny. She looked around at her flat and saw that either she or it was floating, like a cloud. She stared down at her hands and waved them around and giggled even louder. She was the only one in the building, and in the confines of her flat so she could do what she wanted, right? Besides, she’s only taking the soothers because of her hip; they can be a pain at times, specifically whilst she’s cleaning.

She gasped.

“Bugger, I forgot to dust the room!”

She looked at the clock that was hanging on her wall.

“Well I have a good, five or ten minutes before John gets back home from work. Better get started now.”

She clumsily rose from her rather uncomfortable chair and then gathered her duster and started heading upstairs.   
~~~~~~  
John stared at his clock and then at his watch and got up from his office chair, got his coat and locked up for the day. He walked over to the front desk and approached the secretary. She was new, just started working at the office a few weeks ago because the one before her just had a baby and so she got maternity leave for the rest of the year. She was shy, and very nice. Her blonde hair was tied behind her head in a neat ponytail; she had on pale pink lipstick and light blush on her cheeks. John guessed that she was going out with her boyfriend or some friends after her shift today. She had a wide smile on her face.

“Hello, John!”

He met her warm brown eyes and gave something of a smile.

“Hello, Janice.”

John couldn’t tell if she was blushing or if it was just her make-up. She started fidgeting with her sparkly pen that wrote in purple ink. Sometimes John wondered if she was an adult, or just a really mature looking teenager who was about to finish her senior year.

“What brings you over here?”

_‘Don’t make a sarcastic response. She’s young and naïve, she won’t be able to understand it.’_

“Just here to clock out for the day, or did they move it another desk?”

_‘Dammit.’_

She didn’t seem offended by the joke; she chuckled and started typing away on the computer. He tried to not make direct eye contact with her, because she would never stop staring otherwise. She stopped messing with her computer and then went right back to that awful pen she insisted on writing with. John was waiting for the all clear but she wasn’t saying anything. John groaned, he didn’t have time for this.

“So, John…”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering if you…would like to…have dinner sometime.”

John mentally sighed loudly. What was it with everybody asking him out, now? Sure she seemed like a nice girl, probably funny when she wasn’t being bashful and sometimes creepy. But he wasn’t her type, he wouldn’t be able to hear about her new kitten or puppy for an hour-long date and then have to go to her house and probably find her room painted some fluffy and adorable color like powder blue, or carnation pink, or lilac.

_‘Can I be anymore harsh right now?’_

John groaned and placed a hand on his cheek as he stared at her.

_‘Let her down gently.’_

“Janice.”

She perked up at the mention of her name. John had to keep reminding himself that there’s no need to be a prick and hurt her feelings.

“You’re a smart girl and all, hell, you’re gorgeous too.”

She looked like she was about to pass out. Surely her crush wasn’t this deep, he barely knew her!

“But I’m not really looking for a date, there’s too much going on in my life right now. I’m not ready to bring anybody into my problems, just yet.”

Her eyes were downcast and she all but dropped her beloved writing utensil.

“Oh.”

He rubbed the back of his neck and then slowly started to back away. He was never good at letting girls down, because when he did, it tended to be awkward. Hell, it was awkward when Sherlock turned him down when they first met.

_‘He didn’t turn me down, it was just a misunderstanding. And that’s why it was awkward.’_

“So can I go?”

She nodded and he turned to walk away. He was almost out of distance when he heard her start talking.

“I guess it was rather silly. I thought I had a chance with you…but ever since Sherlock Holmes died, I haven’t read about you having a girlfriend in the magazines, or even on your blog. My friend Jeanette was right; Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man. Look at how much you love him, even after he died.”

John sighed and turned back around.

“I don’t love Sh---“

She shushed him.

“That’s what you always say, on your blog especially.”

John crossed his arms, and Janice got up. She does have a nice set of legs.

“But when you write, you don’t see how much you admire him, how much you respect him. Your fondness of the man, Jeanette told me that you were jealous of this “woman” that Sherlock was upset about.”

“Now hold on just a min---“

“You romanticize this man on your blog write-ups, you say all of these nice things about him, and you defend him if somebody in the comments says something particularly harsh, and Jeanette also told me that you wrote poetry to her in attempts to woo her. In a way, that’s what you’re doing on your blog. Your entries are poems dedicated to Sherlock Holmes.”

“He’s incredible, and I want people to see how brilliant he is, but that doesn’t mean I love him.”

She chuckled.

“You can deny it all you want, but all of your friends and fans see it. John Watson is in love with Sherlock Holmes.”

John didn’t know how to respond to that. He just spun on his heel and marched out of the clinic so he can return home and attempt to sort his life out.  
~~~~~~  
Mrs. Hudson was dusting away in the room for about half an hour. She didn’t realize how much dust can accumulate in one room until she started this job. A lot of sneezes and coughs later, she finally completed her task and left the room. She looked up at the clock.

“John should be home any minute now.”

She continued to the hallway where she saw the bathroom door open and what looked like the back of Sherlock’s head. Still feeling the effects of her herbal medication, she simply stared in disbelief. He didn’t seem to notice her; he closed the door and then walked up the stairs. She was shocked and couldn’t find a way to move.

“Was that Sherlock?”

After much debating in her head, she decided that it wasn’t real, just a hallucination caused by the drug. She shook her head and rubbed her eyes and walked down the stairs to her flat. She was going to have a talk with John when he got back.

Pretty soon, she heard the front door open.

“Mrs. H, I’m back!”

“I’m in here!”

He walked over to her door and opened it. She was sitting at her dinner table with a cup of freshly made tea next to her. He smirked and greeted her again. She looked out of it, so John gave her a little shake.

“Mrs. Hudson?”

She snapped out of her daze and then looked at John with a wide smile.

“Oh, John, you nearly gave me a heart-attack!”

“I’m sorry, but what’s the matter, you look distant.”

Her smile disappeared.

“I suppose I do. It’s just…are you seeing somebody else, John?”

His eyes widened.

“What?!”

“Well I wouldn’t usually think something like that but when you wouldn’t let me in the room, and I heard that moan, I simply let it slide. But then this morning, you had two cups of tea out next to both chairs, and then Sherlock’s bed wasn’t made, as if somebody slept on it recently, and you’ve been acting strangely. I just think that it’s so soon after Sherlock…”

“Mrs. Hudson, I am not gay, remember that. And anyway, I simply forgotten that you made me tea, I’ve been miles away ever since the fall so if I’ve been acting out of the ordinary, just disregard it.”

She resigned to a nod and John was satisfied with the answer. He was going to leave until she said, “I also thought that I saw Sherlock today. But I think that was just one of the effects of my medication. Or maybe I’m beginning to miss him a lot more than I originally thought.”

“You…saw Sherlock?”

“Yes but don’t think that he was actually there. It’s just the grief getting to me.”

“Yes…the grief…”

John swung the door open.

“Excuse me Mrs. Hudson; I have to…go upstairs for a moment….”

She got up and walked over to the door to call after John.

“I’m sorry, love, I didn’t mean to touch a nerve.”

“No, no, it’s…fine…”

He sped up the stairs to his flat, leaving Mrs. Hudson high and confused.


	11. Chapter 11

John made his way upstairs to find that Sherlock was still in his room, probably watching Television all day, minus the bathroom breaks. He walked up the stairs to his room to find Sherlock sitting down on the edge of his bed, eating chocolate ice cream out of the carton with a spoon. John wanted to be mad at Sherlock, but when he saw the detective in that position on his bed, he tried his best to look serious and not laugh at him. He crossed his arms and straightened his face while still standing in the doorway.

“Sherlock.”

The grey eyes now had a tint of green at the sight of John. John always loved Sherlock’s eyes, he had heterochromia, and he had blue, green, and gold coloring in his eyes. Though they acted like a mood ring at most times.

“John!”

His mouth was full of ice cream, so it sounded muffled. Something inside of John fluttered when Sherlock said his name like that. He was happy to see him. But John had to tell him to be more discreet. He closed the door behind him and sat down on the bed. Sherlock didn’t seem to sense that John wasn’t happy.

“I’m sorry about the ice cream. I got hungry, and I couldn’t find the biscuits.”

John put his arm up to stop him.

“It’s alright, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stopped talking and then placed the spoon in the carton. He finally got a clue that John wasn’t happy.

“What’s wrong, have I upset you?”

John shrugged.

_‘The problem is that I might be in love with you.’_

“So Mrs. Hudson and I had a talk.”

“Okay.”

“She told me that she saw the back of your head today while she was up here.”

“She saw me?”

John nodded.

“But lucky for you she just had her herbal soother, so she dismissed you as one of her hallucinations.”

Sherlock looked at the TV and then back at John.

“Come here, there’s something I want to show you.”

“On the telly?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Yes, now hurry before it goes away!”

John sat down on the bed and watched as Sherlock was about to fall off because he was so anxious to show John whatever it was that he saw. The news anchor was talking about a recent murder and the screen cut to show the police cars and ambulances and then it showed Lestrade talking to Sally while the anchor was talking.

_‘Oh God.’_

Sherlock pointed to the screen, right on top of Lestrade’s face. He looked back at John and steadied himself so that he wouldn’t break his other arm falling off of the bed.

“See, look, that’s what I wanted to show you.”

John swallowed hard. He didn’t want Sherlock to see his unease at him mentioning Greg. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice either because he was too wrapped up in his own world, as usual.

“What about him?”

“Who is that?”

“That’s Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Why?”

“Can I meet him? I feel like I’ve seen him before.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sherlock?”

The younger man’s face fell.

“Why not?”

“Because he’s on a case right now, and it wouldn’t be polite if we just followed him around trying to talk to him. We’d be distracting him.”

Sherlock started fidgeting with his hands again.

“But I could help him with the case. “

John wanted to tell him that he wasn’t going either way, and that was final. But didn’t he also want Sherlock to remember his friends? To remember what happened before his “death”? Didn’t Mycroft send him here so John could do just that? John pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed to get his shit together, Sherlock needs him. John is the only face that Sherlock might be comfortable around, or that he might actually partially remember. But he’s not ready to unveil his friend to the world yet.

“What makes you think that?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Every time I look at him, I feel like that’s something I could do. Solve the crime.”

_‘You can solve the crime, Sherlock. You just don’t know it yet.’_

“I’m sorry Sherlock. But you can’t meet him.”

“Why, do I know him?”

John didn’t answer.

“Do…you know him?”

Another moment of silence passed before Sherlock said something else. John would just wish that Sherlock would leave it alone and wait until John was ready to explain but that was in his nature. Sherlock Holmes hates not knowing anything and being kept in the dark must be maddening to him. He just wants to understand why John was being so hush-hush about everything. From the moment he woke up in the hospital, Sherlock has been tossed around by Mycroft and John without a clue why.

“I have to go take a shower, Sherlock. I haven’t been able to this morning because I was running late.”

Sherlock knew that John purposefully changed the subject. He gave a resigned nod.

“Okay John.”

John felt bad but he just didn’t know how to handle this the right way, if there was even a right way. He gathered his clothes and then glanced at Sherlock, who was watching a detective show now, before heading downstairs.

 _‘God give me strength…’_  
~~~~~~~~~~~  
A Few Days Later   
~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock was getting on John’s last nerve. He’s been pestering John nonstop and asking question after question after question. He would purposefully make loud noises whenever John was trying to relax so he could get his attention and ask more questions. John wanted to answer them, he really did, but then Sherlock wouldn’t be able to comprehend it all. Sherlock’s not stupid, he’s far from it. He knows Sherlock doesn’t mean to do it; it’s just that John is more frustrated with himself more than he is his flatmate. Though John was trying his hardest to not tell Sherlock to shut the hell up, he was damn near close to it.

He decided that it was the perfect time to hang out with Molly, get away from it all. Get away from Sherlock, from his denial with feelings, and everything else. A pint with a friend sounded heavenly to him. He whipped out his phone and went to Molly on his contact.

_“Hey Molly, I have some free time, still up for that pint?”_

He only had to wait a few seconds when his phone vibrated.

_“Yeah, a pint does sound rather good at the moment. It gives me a chance to unwind. I’ll meet you at our usual pub within the next hour._

_-Molly xx”_

John tucked his phone back into his pocket and smiled to himself. It was nice to look forward to something that wasn’t his job or….

_‘Stop that. None of this is Sherlock’s fault. He barely even knows who he is.’_

John sighed loudly. Sherlock, who was sitting on the couch, looked over at John.

“What’s the matter?”

John shook his head.

“Nothing, I’m just going out with a friend.”

“A friend?”

John nodded.

“Yes Sherlock, a friend.”

Sherlock let that sink in for a minute. John didn’t sound happy, once again. Sherlock wanted to know what he did now. John seemed to be mad at him a lot for some reason, surely there was a reason for it. Hopefully John will tell him.

“…Will you be gone for long?”

“Not for too long, maybe for an hour or so.”

Sherlock hated it when John left. He doesn’t know why, but he just does. There’s something about John…

John got his coat and then walked over to the door.

“You know what to do, right?”

“Yes John. I am to stay upstairs until you come back.”

“Good.”

John had to leave. The air in the room was just oppressive. He wanted to take Sherlock out, who knows what being in the house for days on end could do to you, but he couldn’t. Because Sherlock Holmes isn’t supposed to be there, he’s supposed to be dead. He was supposed to commit suicide, but he didn’t. And for now, this is all John can do.

_‘You’re doing this to help him. It’s for his own good.’_

John had to keep reminding himself. It was the only way to cope.


	12. Chapter 12

John walked over to the pub where Molly was standing, along with Lestrade, surprisingly. Once she spotted him, she had a wide smile on her face and started waving him over. Lestrade seemed to already have a pint in his hand, John wasn’t even surprised.

“John!”

Once he made his way over to him, she wrapped him in a hug. Lestrade was just sitting there, with his usual smile on. She released him and then gave one more glance.

“It’s great to see you again!”

John nodded.

“Yes, it’s…nice to see you too.”

“Oi! I’m standing here too.”

John laughed and gave Greg a nice bro hug, which entailed of a nice clasp of the hand and a pull into each other, followed by the one affectionate back slap. They also let go of each other and everybody was just standing there. Molly was the one to break the silence.

“Well then, we’re all here, let’s go inside!”

John motioned for them to head in first and he followed them inside. He sat down on one of the stools and then watched as his friends took their seats. Molly just couldn’t stop smiling.

“I hope you don’t mind that I brought Greg with me. This was the only time he was free.”

John held his hand up for her to stop talking and gave her a polite smile.

“It’s alright, Molly. I’m happy to see you guys again. It’s been a while…since…you know…”

Molly frowned and looked away. Greg was drinking from his pint but he still looked affected by the words.

“Yes we know…we know that it wasn’t easy for you, it wasn’t easy for us either.”

“It’s just so hard, you know?”

Greg nodded.

“Yeah, we know.”

“It’s just so hard to understand that he’s gone. He’s dead. I lost my best friend.”

Molly gave a sheepish smile and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“We miss him too. I keep thinking that he’s going to come to the morgue and ask me to pull up a body I already put through processing to help with the case.”

Lestrade laughed.

“And I keep thinking that he’s going to waltz into the crime scene as he pleases and ask me for the full details.”

John smirked.

_‘That’s what he was trying to do today.’_

“How’s Mrs. Hudson taking it? I know that Sherlock and she were very close.”

John let out a breath and gave a small smile.

“Yeah, she’s not taking it so well either. She tries to be positive for me, but I know that it’s not working. That doesn’t stop her from trying though. We had dinner the other night.”

Molly’s smile perked up.

“And how was that?”

“The best it could be for two, lonely, grieving people.”

Greg interrupted.

“So it wasn’t very satisfying.”

“Nope, it was awkward, minus the few conversations we had. But it helped a tiny bit.”

Greg chuckled and took another swig from his pint. Molly just kind of toyed with hers. She wasn’t a big drinker, in fact, John wasn’t even sure if she drank at all because he’s rarely seen Molly outside of work. John however, was half-way done with his. He really needed it, even if it wasn’t much. He was so stressed out, but he tried not to be. He tried to be optimistic and look on the bright side, but that just wasn’t in his nature. John was a realist.

Greg got a notification on his phone, and held it up with one hand as he took his drink with the other. His eyebrows rose and he put his phone down back in his pocket.

“That was Sergeant Donovan. Excuse me, I gotta take this.”

He walked away from John and Molly and over to the entrance. John stared at Molly while the other was staring at the man on the phone. It took John a minute to realize that Molly was staring at him intently while his attention was away. His brows furrowed.

“Jesus, Molly, that’s…kind of creepy.”

“I’m sorry it’s just...I have to ask you something.”

“What is it?”

“I was wondering….where exactly is Sherlock?”

John’s eyes widened.

“What?”

“I mean. I know he isn’t actually dead, because I helped with the project.”

Molly was a part of the Lazarus project?

“Sherlock told me not to tell you because he didn’t want to give it away to Moriarty, but now I have no choice but to ask.”

“No it’s…it’s alright, Mycroft told me about it.”

She looked eager.

“So you talked to Mycroft? Did he tell you anything about Sherlock? When I saw him at the hospital, he didn’t look to be in a good way.”

John’s head hung low. He doesn’t know if he should tell her about Sherlock. If she doesn’t know, it’s probably best that he keeps it that way.

While they were talking, Lestrade was still on the phone with Donovan.

“I know that he wants the evidence, just tell him that we can’t provide him with any at the moment.”

“You and I both know that we’ll just be digging a deeper hole for ourselves. He’s already pissed that the media found out so soon and you know how he can be when he’s angry,” Sally said over the line.

Lestrade ran a hand through his grey locks.

“He can be a right arsehole. I know.”

“Look, we can either tell him that we don’t have any evidence, or we can tell him that there is no evidence.”

“I don’t know. What won’t get us killed or suspended?”

“I’m not sure sir.”

Lestrade gave a frustrated sigh.

“Where’s Sherlock when you need him?”

Sally didn’t respond immediately.

“I understand that you miss him, but we can get through this without him. We have no choice but to now.”

“Yeah, you’re right. As infuriating as he can be at times, he was still the best thing that happened to Scotland Yard.”

Sally sighed.

“What, don’t act like that. You know that he was damn effective, even if you didn’t like him.”

“Greg, sir, we don’t have time for this…”

“Yes, yes, I know…”

While Greg was on the phone, he felt somebody tap his shoulder. He was facing the other way so he didn’t know who it was.

“Excuse me, are you Greg Lestrade?”

Lestrade just shrugged the stranger off. He was too distracted with his phone call to recognize the voice. The stranger kept at it.

“I won’t be but a moment.”

Greg was getting aggravated.

“Yes…sorry, this guy won’t stop prodding my back.”

“I need to talk to you!”

Greg had enough and turned around whilst shouting, “Alright! What do you want m—“

He turned around to see Sherlock standing there. His mouth hung open and he felt his hand falling slowly from his ear.

“Greg?! Greg?! Hello?”

“I gotta…call…you back…”

He hung up the phone. He was just staring at Sherlock, the incredibly alive detective. John happened to peer over his shoulder and saw Lestrade staring at Sherlock. John’s distraction caused Molly to turn around and then all three of them were wide-mouthed messes. John whispered under his breath, “Oh God…”


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock was still standing there, with his hand in his pocket and a hopeful look on his face. He didn’t seem to notice that almost everybody in the pub, mainly John, Molly, and Greg were staring at him like they’re witnessing the second coming of Jesus. John was frozen in his seat, he didn’t know how to react; he didn’t even know what to say. If he catches Sherlock’s attention, they’re going to know that John already knew about his resurrection and that would only result in more problems which neither of them needed at the moment. Greg didn’t blink in over a minute and John wasn’t even sure if he was breathing anymore.

“Sherlock…”

The detective’s brows furrowed.

“You said my name…”

Greg nodded, like he wasn’t even aware that he was talking.

“Yes…of course I did…”

“How do you know me?”

Greg finally blinked and his mouth started to move and John couldn’t help but be relieved that he was actually alive.

“Wha---“

Before Greg could even begin to get his thoughts and words together, Sherlock looked over at Molly and John and his eyes widened so much, John thought that they were going to pop out of his head. John didn’t know what he gotten himself into. He could see all of the questions he was going to have to answer in a few seconds. He felt as if he would need to get a table with a bottle of water and a few microphones and hold a press conference.

“John?”

Molly looked over at John with a confused face on.

“Sorry, why is he calling you?”

_‘You never were good with timing, Sherlock.’_

“Excuse me; I…have to go…”

John was speeding over to Sherlock with the sternest look on his face. Sherlock looked like a deer in headlights as he tried to process what exactly was going on. He saw John nearing him and for some reason, he had the feeling that he was in trouble. That maybe he shouldn’t have done that, but it wasn’t his fault.

“John, I—“

Said person grabbed Sherlock by his good arm and forcefully pulled him out of the pub. Sherlock wanted to tell John his side of the story but John seemed upset and very eager to return home. He turned back around and said, “Sorry guys, I’ll reschedule!”

Sherlock heard the girl he was sitting with shout his name and the man he knew as Lestrade was still standing there like an idiot. Sherlock wanted to laugh but he thought that John wasn’t in the mood for that. They made it all the way back to their flat and John let go of Sherlock’s wrist, which the younger man was grateful for. He was starting to cramp up because of John’s death grip.

John started pacing back and forth and Sherlock wasn’t sure what to do.

“John, I can explain.”

“Just…sit down Sherlock.”

John had reserved anger in his voice, and it was the soldier in him that kept it all inside and hidden away enough so that he could talk. Sherlock found himself slowly sinking down to the couch and watching John’s movements carefully. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be scared, or angry just like John.  There were so many things he had to say to him, and he knew that John wasn’t telling him everything. Ever since he came back from the hospital or put here by…Mycroft was his name, right? John stopped pacing and clenched his fists and stood in front of Sherlock.

“What the HELL were you thinking?!”

“I…”

“Why don’t you ever listen to me? I tell you to do one thing and then you go ahead do the opposite! You never listen! You always have to do what you want; it’s always your way, because you’re too bloody stubborn to listen to anybody else!”

Sherlock doesn’t know who John is yet, besides his name and the fact that they had some sort of relationship in the past but for the guy who’s claiming to be his best friend, he was sure acting like he was more like his caretaker and not his friend. He wanted to explain but John wouldn’t let him get a word in and insisted on screaming the house down. While John was hooting and hollering, he didn’t notice that Mrs. Hudson came upstairs because she heard all of the commotion.

“John what is the matter? You’re screaming like you’ve---“

She gasped and a hand flew to her mouth.

“Oh my god…is that…?”

John stopped screaming and looked behind him and saw his landlady there, looking like she’s just seen a ghost. Her frantic eyes flashed from Sherlock to John. John’s lip twitched.

“Mrs. Hudson…”

“What’s he doing here?” She asked through tears,” He’s supposed to be…”

She didn’t finish the sentence and closed the door on the way back down the stairs. John gave the loudest sigh Sherlock ever heard escape his lips and ran his hand roughly through his hair. Since John wasn’t screaming at him anymore, Sherlock decided to talk.

“…W-What was she talking about, John?”

John looked at him like he forgot he was there for a minute. Sherlock asked again.

“Why did she act like that when she saw me?”

John hesitated for a minute.

“Because she wasn’t expecting you back so soon…”

Sherlock shook his head.

“She acted like she saw a ghost or something. And so did Greg and the lady you were with at the pub. And I thought you didn’t know Greg.”

“Sher— I never said I didn’t know him, I never answered your question…”

“I know you didn’t.”

John knew that Sherlock finally had enough of this and wanted answers.

“What exactly is going on here? Why do you keep me holed up in here, this place that I don’t even know, for days on end and tell me that I can’t move from your…prison until you come back home!”

“Because…”

“Why is it that every time I ask you a question about my past or about our apparent “history” together, you always dodge it?”

John had no answer this time.

“I only went to the pub because…Mycroft…I think his name was came upstairs and asked me to accompany him to his car. HE TOOK ME THERE.”

John’s mouth hung open. He should’ve known that Mycroft was going to intervene sooner or later. He didn’t like the way John was handling the situation it seemed. John didn’t like the way he was handling the situation either. It was Sherlock’s turn to stand up and take over the task of yelling.

“Ever since I woke up at the hospital, you and Mycroft have been telling me things that I have no clue about, Mycroft dropped me off here, I barely know who you are, and everything just seems so…confusing….”

John frowned as Sherlock’s tone softened and he sort of deflated into the couch.

“I don’t know what it is, John. But every time I look at you, all I see is this sadness and I don’t why but I always feel like it’s my fault. When I sleep I keep hearing your voice shout my name, but everything goes black and then I wake up with a headache. It’s all so maddening because…I feel like I should know these things…but I don’t…I think I can remember…but I don’t know…Everybody that’s seen me look so…miserable and scared and I want to know why, John. So I’m asking you…”

John could’ve sworn he saw Sherlock’s eyes water.

“Help me remember who I am…”


	14. Chapter 14

John couldn’t stand to see Sherlock in that much pain. He knew that he was struggling with his memory, which is the last thing a person with a mind like Sherlock should be having issues with. John wasn’t quite used to dealing with people with amnesia so he spent some of his free-time on his laptop that has been hack free since Sherlock couldn’t remember the password, searching up some ways to help them. Since a lot of the websites said practically the same thing, which was get a doctor or a therapist to help the affected individual, John sighed. He was going have to do this on his own then. If Sherlock wanted to know about his past, then he was going to have to tell him, no more avoiding the questions. Sherlock deserved that much. Then he called Mycroft. As usual, that wasn’t the most spectacular thing either.

“Hello, John.”

“What the hell were you thinking dropping Sherlock off like that in front of the pub?”

“I was trying to help you out and speed the process along, since you decided to delay it.”

“I wasn’t delaying anything.”

“John, if your idea of helping my amnesiac little brother is by keeping him holed up in your room like some jail cell for days while you went out and about with your life as if he wasn’t there is helping him, then I feel sorry for you. I thought you cared more for him.”

John hesitated. For Mycroft to claim that he doesn’t care about Sherlock, his best friend, his Sherlock, was completely uncalled for and he felt himself getting slightly offended that he would even think such a thing.

“I do care for Sherlock. And anyway, how do you expect me to react? Do you want me to just throw a sign on Sherlock saying “NOT DEAD” on it and have him parade all over London? And what are you doing to help his situation?”

“What I thought best and let him go back home, to you.”

“And you and I both know that he doesn’t know where his home is! He doesn’t even feel comfortable enough around me, sure he talks to me on occasion, but that’s only when he’s watching crap telly.”

Damn. John shouldn’t have said that last part.

“…He’s watching crap telly?”

“Yes, it was the only thing that kept him quiet for a while so I just thought what the hell?”

There was another pause.

“I’m not going to entertain that subject any longer.”

“Good because I didn’t know what else to say.”

He could hear Mycroft huff.

“I sent Sherlock there because if he was going to recognize anybody, it would be you.”

John knew what he was getting at but he wanted to hear Mycroft say it.

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“John while you do not possess superior intellect, I’m sure that you can understand what I meant when I said that.”

“Well maybe my lesser-brain can’t process that, maybe I need you to explain it to me.”

He could practically hear Mycroft’s smirk through the phone. His mouth drew into a smirk of its own as well.

“Ever since my brother met you, his attitude has certainly changed. However, that attitude change is only present when you are in the vicinity, other than that; there is hardly a sign of change with anybody else. He listens to you, John. He enjoys your company and he’s convinced that he works better with you, which is the case. He cares for you John, despite everything I have ever told him about caring for another; he still lets you find your way into the heart that has been long closed. I would argue that he starting to feel more….amorous towards you, but since the accident…”

“That YOU caused,” John said accusingly.

“Since the ACCIDENT,” Mycroft continued, “I don’t even know what he’s thinking anymore, and that’s new for me since I’m always one step ahead of him. And so that’s why I placed you in charge of making sure my little brother gets his memories back, because you’re the only one that can accomplish this task.”

“What makes you think that he likes me that much?”

“Do you really think that Sherlock would ever let someone get as close to him as he let you? That Sherlock would let just anybody parade around a crime scene with him and help him solve it? No, John Watson, it is only you. You’re his doctor, you’re his flatmate, his colleague, and, while I do not approve of it, you’re his friend. He’s chosen you, and as far as I’m concerned, you chose him as well.”

“Chose him? I haven’t chosen anybody---“

“How’s your visits with Ella been going?”

John’s face stiffened.

“I’ve not seen Ella in almost a year.”

“And how’s your hand tremor?”

“….”

“When’s the last time you’ve even had a girlfriend?”

John could hear that Mycroft was amusing himself with these endless questions. John refused to be Mycroft’s object of humor at the moment so he quickly shut it down.

“Alright, come off it. I see what you’re getting at.”

The low rumbling told John that Mycroft was possibly laughing.

“Good. Now I must be off, I have a meeting with several ambassadors that I’d rather not be late to.”

“Mycroft, wait, I still need to talk---“

“Goodbye, doctor.”

Just like that, he hung up. Why would he stay any longer? Mister British government had other things to do like rule London, or possibly interrogate another psychopath so they can start running about terrorizing England and stalking Sherlock. John will call him, Moriarty Two, and maybe this time, when Sherlock has to jump off of a rooftop, his plan would go right and he won’t end up in another coma. John gave a sigh that soon turned into a groan and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was interrupted by the familiar baritone voice.

“Is something the matter, John?”

He released his hold on his nose and saw Sherlock standing there, in his pajamas, and holding the side of his head.

_‘Another headache, it seems.’_

John shook his head and lowered his hand.

“No, nothing is the matter. Did you have another headache?”

Sherlock looked hesitant to answer at first, but he bit his lip and then nodded, careful not to agitate his headache anymore. John walked into the bathroom and got the Advil and gave him two and watched as Sherlock knocked it back without any protests, as this was starting to become a daily routine with the two men. Ever since Sherlock practically begged John to help him remember a week ago, Sherlock’s headaches seemed to increased and he’s been waking up to the throbbing of his head for a few days now. John took his hand and led him to his chair, and John took his seat in his chair.

“What did you dream about this time?”

Sherlock’s answers were always vague, but John could usually piece them together.

“I saw…clouds…but they were grey. I felt like I was high…on a roof, perhaps?”

John gave a nod to show that he was listening and that he understood.

“And then, I said something, I don’t know what. But then I heard you scream my name again and I woke up.”

John knew exactly what he was remembering, his fall from Barts, the last few minutes that he had before the injury. John didn’t want to remember that day, but all Sherlock could do was remember and dream about it. John looked at the newspaper that Mrs. Hudson brought up and saw Lestrade on the cover. John didn’t have any other choice, if he wanted Sherlock to remember…this was the only way.

He placed his hand on top of Sherlock’s and rubbed it with the pad of his thumb. Sherlock looked confused but then he looked into John’s eyes, and John could’ve sworn that he saw a twinkle in them. Did he really choose him? Or did John want to be chosen?

“Get dressed, Sherlock. We’re going to go out for a while.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to spending the summer with my dad, and so I don't know how often I will be able to update. I'll try to do it every few days! Thank you to everybody who is reading it!


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock looked worried for a moment. He didn't know what John was planning to do, and he thought that maybe he was still mad at him and wanted to get back for embarrassing him in front of his friends. He gave John his lost child look and then his hands clasped together. 

 

"Why? Where are we going?" 

 

John smirked. He probably thought that he was in trouble, because he usually was. But this time, it wasn't the case. 

 

"Don't take me to Mycroft, please. I'll behave this time, and I'll stay in the bedroom until you come back, I promise." 

 

John frowned. He wasn't this harsh in keeping Sherlock hidden from the world was he? He thought he was doing the detective a favor but it seemed like he only made things worse. But instead of getting mad at Sherlock, he simply smiled and shook his head. He grabbed Sherlock's hand and then made him look John in the eyes so he knew that Sherlock was listening. 

 

"Sherlock, I'm not going to take you back to Mycroft, okay? I will never abandon you at Mycroft's house no matter how bad you get or if the situation becomes too overwhelming, because that's not what friends do to each other." 

 

Sherlock seemed to take this is in as John watched his eyes wander away and then slowly meeting his again as if it sunk in. John felt the pressure of Sherlock's hand closing in on his own and the pad of his thumb rubbing against the coarse skin of John's own hand. Sherlock's smooth lips stretched into a smile that displayed that he believed in John, that he was starting to trust him. 

 

"Do you mean that?" 

 

"Of course I do Sherlock, I wouldn't have put up with you for this long if I didn't feel this way." 

 

He saw a bit of white flash as Sherlock's grin grew a bit wider. He knew that Sherlock hated his smile, but he only really let John see it and it made John tingle all over. As stressful as this was, John needed to see that Sherlock would be okay with staying with him until he got his memory back;if he got his memory back. He tried not to let those thoughts make their way into his head, but as hard as he fought, they always seemed to win. The closest he's ever been to a person having Amnesia is when Harry got a little bit too wasted and John had to help her back into her flat and had to break up the brewing argument that she and Clara had whenever she saw John carting her drunk wife into their shared room. John understood that she was upset, but she could at least wait until she was sober enough to stand on her feet without falling down. This was different. At least Harry would wake up the next morning and have a vague recollection of what happened the night before, whereas Sherlock couldn't even do that much sometimes. He would forget John's name at times, and not to mention those headaches he would have when he woke up. How painful it must be for him to remember. The only memory he can seem to scrounge up is the most terrifying of them all, and the last thing he experienced before having his brain erase all of his thoughts. Did Sherlock still have his mind palace? Did he know how to do deductions? What was going on in that mind, the one that used to be swarming with information and mental recollections, now vacant and empty, with only scraps of what remained. 

 

He can't think too hard about it, he would start to sulk, and then he would get depressed, and neither him or Sherlock needed that. Not when there was so much going on. 

 

Wait a minute, something was happening. He and Sherlock were but an inch away from each other. John could feel the lukewarm breath that came from the other blowing on his mouth and for some strange reason,  he liked it. His breath didn't stink, it never did, and if it did have some sort of scent with it, it was usually what he ate last, or his tea, and when John woke up particularly early, it would be tinged with the minty aroma of his toothpaste. John felt his body heating up with a hidden passion he didn't even know he was capable of feeling. Sherlock was staring at him with those grey eyes that looked so cold but held so much warmth behind them that only John could see. Everybody saw the cold, calculating, rude Consulting detective, but John knew better. John knew that the icy heart that he had would melt for not just anybody, but for him. Then the way Sherlock's mouth curved when he smiled, so soft and plump, it was as if his mouth was designed for smiles. John felt himself slowly moving in, while Sherlock did nothing. Before John moved any closer, they heard knocking. 

 

John was grateful for it. He didn't know what he was doing, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to go through with it. It would be wrong to take advantage of Sherlock when he was like this. He doesn't even know John, and if he were to finish his act, Sherlock would be confused, probably upset, and John might lose him forever. 

 

"Yoo-hoo!" 

 

None other than Mrs. Hudson. John never understood her logic. She wanted them to get together, but she always interrupted the times that they were so close to granting her wish. However, John didn't care if she interrupted their moment, it was awkward, well, for him, anyway. Sherlock looked as if he didn't know John was even moving in to kiss him, that was good. 

 

"Is that Mrs. Hudson?" 

 

John nodded. Ever since she saw Sherlock sitting on the couch, alive and...partially well, she got her thoughts together and started coming up more often than before, she would take care of Sherlock when John went out to work, and she would make the tea and the food. John even came upstairs one day and saw that they were both watching TV in the living room. Sherlock would ask her questions and she would answer them. Pretty soon, things seemed semi-normal, Mrs. Hudson got her boys back, even though one of them was slightly broken. Sherlock seemed to like her company as well, even if he couldn't find the exact reason why. 

 

He walked over to the door and opened it. Mrs. Hudson had her usual smile on her face when she saw both of them. She had a tray of tea in her hands and walked inside and set them on the table and then walked over to where Sherlock was seated. 

 

"What's going on?" 

 

John was the one who responded. 

 

"We're going out, go on Sherlock, get dressed." 

 

Sherlock stood up and walked out of the room and into his own. When John was sure that the younger man wouldn't be able to hear them, he started speaking to his landlady in a lower tone. 

 

"I'm taking him out today. I'm taking him to Barts, and maybe even Lestrade's crime scene. I just want to see if he would be able to remember something, even if it's just for a second. He needs to remember. I can't watch him go on like this anymore." 

 

She placed a hand on her chest and nodded in sympathetic agreement. 

 

"I'm still not too sure about the whole thing, but you care for him most and if you think this will work, then who am I to argue?" 

 

"Thank you. It's good to know that somebody agrees with what I'm doing. What with the elder Holmes constantly hounding me and not being afraid to pick up the phone in order to make sure things are going his way." 

 

She waved her hand at him dismissively.

 

"Oh, rubbish. I'm sure he's hard on you because he worries about Sherlock like you do. Like we all do. But you especially." 

 

John had to ask for further explanation. 

 

"What do you mean by that?" 

 

"Do I really have to explain it to you?" 

 

"I guess so." 

 

She chuckled.

 

"Everybody knows that he's your Sherlock, and your his John." 

 

_'My Sherlock?'_

 

John wanted to ask another question, but he was interrupted by Sherlock's sudden appearance. He was staring at the both of them, fully dressed in his usual garb; black trousers, and the purple shirt the both of them loved so much, followed by his also pricey shoes. Sometimes John had the notion that Sherlock had more money than he let on. I mean, look at his brother, and it's quite clear that they grew up in a posh, luxurious house, fit with the wealthy parents that probably spoiled their children to death, judging by how demanding Sherlock is and how upset he gets when he doesn't get what he wants. Hell, Mycroft was the same too. But he could be wrong. Maybe the Holmes children were spoiled because that's the only way their parents would show them affection. He can picture the boys surrounded by their gifts and other items, but not receiving the proper parental love that most children would get. 

"I'm ready, John." 

John responded in a curt nod and got his coat from his room. When he made his way back downstairs, he gave one last look to Sherlock and then another hopeful glance to Mrs. Hudson who was still standing there. He opened the front door for Sherlock to leave out of and then followed behind him. When they got outside, John hailed a taxi for the both of them and let Sherlock in first. 

"Where are we heading today, sir?" 

John answered, "Barts hospital." 

~~~~~~~~~

Molly was working in the morgue today, like most days. They walked in on her filling out paperwork for a body that found its way to the hospital. She turned around when she heard John's audible gulp. Her mouth curved into a smile at the sight of the company he brought. 

"Hey, John!" 

And her eyes passed over to Sherlock who was more interested in surveying the area. She still wasn't sure about how she was supposed to be feeling about his return, what with the way that he showed back up into her life was so sudden and abrupt. She knew that he wasn't dead, but still, she never figured that he would reappear without a single memory of her, or any of his friends for that matter. John noticed that she was staring at Sherlock, and he forgotten to tell her why they were even there. 

"Sherlock." 

Sherlock's head snapped towards John's. 

"Yes, John?" 

John gestured towards Molly. 

"Sherlock, this is Molly Hooper." 

Sherlock gave a curteous smile and extended his hand out towards her. 

"Hello." 

She took it hesitantly and the shake was just a whole lot of awkward. She looked up at him and smiled, hoping that if there was some bit of Sherlock still in there, he would come out and comment on how small her mouth was, or how he wasn't in favor with how her hair was parted. Something, anything. She wanted her sociopath back. 

"I remember you." 

Her eyes lit up at the sentence. 

"You do, really?" 

Sherlock nodded.

"You were there at the pub, when I was talking to Lestrade." 

Just like that, her the light in her eyes faded. He really couldn't remember her. 

"Yes, yes, that was me." 

John had to intervene, this shouldn't be Molly's problem, it wasn't her fault he was like this. It wasn't anybody's. Everything they do now should be towards helping Sherlock return to being that arsehole they all love and know. He walked over to the pair and rested a hand on Sherlock's back. 

"Hey, Sherlock, go and check some of that stuff out over there." 

Sherlock's eyes became half-lidded when he looked at John, maybe even dreamy. Molly's brows furrowed as she noticed the change in Sherlock's expression. John noticed too and gave Sherlock another pat on the back and said, "Quickly." 

Sherlock nodded and smiled. 

"Okay, John." 

He walked over to the table that was filled with chemicals and tools that he would...should know how to use. Maybe it will help him jog his memory just a bit. 

John turned to face Molly, and he knew he had some explaining to do.

"Look, I should've texted you and told you why I was coming, but this is for Sherlock's good. He and I both want him to remember. He asked me." 

"I guessed that much." 

John nodded. Good. 

"So I see Cupid's arrow has struck somebody." 

It was John's turn to glare. 

"Huh?" 

She smirked. 

"You don't see it? Sherlock's attitude change around you, I mean." 

John still looked confused. 

"No." 

She was oddly entertained by this. 

"Well it's just...nothing, never mind. I'm sure you'll figure it out soon." 

John was thrown off by the comment and stared at her for a few more minutes before turning and heading off to Sherlock's direction. All the while, Molly was standing next to her body and smiling to herself. 

  
 


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock was fiddling with the miscellaneous instruments and tools that were laid out on the table in front of him. He turned his head to look at John who was approaching him and watched as the other man bent down to be at Sherlock's level since he was seated. They both made eye contact, and again John felt himself physically unable to look away. Or was it more of a mental thing? Sherlock had those smoldering grey eyes, that were now mixed with icy blue and little specks of gold. John's never seen another person with the same condition as Sherlock, but it suit him so well, like everything else did on Sherlock. The detective's smooth lips spread into a small smile as he felt the doctor's hand rest on the small of his back. Sherlock's face was so tender, so sincere as he gazed upon the hardened ex-solider's face, John couldn't help but smile back. He doesn't know what brought about this sudden change in Sherlock, but he was starting to like it. 

 

_'Focus John, this isn't about you, it's about your friend who can't remember you. Focus on him.'_

 

Just like that John suddenly broke their gaze and turned to the glass tubes Sherlock had in his hand. 

 

"Find anything interesting?" 

 

Sherlock shook his head. 

 

"Just glass and chemicals." 

 

 

"Think this can help you scrounge up any memories? Maybe of you working here?" 

 

Another head shake. 

 

"I don't think this is going to do anything for me." 

 

John rubbed his back in slow circles to comfort him and let him know that they would get through this somehow, whether it was together or not at all. He's not about to abandon his best friend because of an accident that he couldn't prevent. Because he was trying to save his friends. John rested his hand on the cold, metallic table, and found that it was soon warmed by the heat of Sherlock's hand. John could never get over how soft his hand was, it wasn't coarse and calloused and worn as John's was. It belonged to the man who spent his years playing violin, who was always cautious whilst conducting experiments (careful as he could be) and who took good care of his body overall. John was grateful for the fact that Sherlock wasn't in the army, he wouldn't survive in there. He would find some way to survive, but it would be living with the trauma that comes with being in active duty. He would have to live with the images and nightmares of other soldiers dying right before his very eyes, he would have to struggle with learning what is there and what isn't. It would ruin that beautiful, yet fragile brain that resided in Sherlock's skull. 

 

Sherlock's eyes tore into John's and there was a certain tension there, it wasn't the type where they were seconds away from punching each other, even though he knew that some part of him wanted to do it, Sherlock probably did too. He wanted to scream at everybody, he wanted to pommel Mycroft, and shout. Demand answers that he knew he wouldn't get, he would try to force somebody to give Sherlock's memories back so he can give him new ones. So he can fall in love all over again....

 

_'I swear it seems like I can't shut you off. How does Sherlock handle this?'_

 

It seems that John was going to have to repeat himself to his stubborn head. 

 

_'You are NOT gay!'_

Hopefully, this will halt any new thoughts forming in his head. He returned his attention to Sherlock, who was still staring down at him. It really seems like somebody switched a fuse in his head. John wished that he switched that off again so he wouldn't constantly have to fight with his thoughts every second. 

 

_'You can't do this, John. You'll be taking advantage of him, don't do this.'_

He turned around and saw Molly staring at the both of them and smirking to herself. She was the perfect distraction. John gave Sherlock a little pat on the back and slowly rose up, leaving Sherlock looking a bit disappointed. John gave him a reassuring smile and said, "Hang on, I've got to talk to Molly for a moment, and then I'll be back, okay?" 

 

Sherlock seemed to accept the answer and let John go. Molly saw the doctor approaching and quickly started working again as if that was what she was doing this whole time. John rolled his eyes as soon as he was in front of her. 

 

"What?" 

 

She gave a coy smile. 

 

"Nothing. I'm just...happy for you." 

 

"Really?" 

 

She nodded. 

 

"You just looked sad without him here..." 

 

They didn't know that Sherlock was listening to them, because when Molly spoke, something in Sherlock just triggered. Almost immediately, Sherlock felt a seering headache shoot through his cranium and as a reflex, Sherlock's hand flew to his head and he slouched in pain. The bright lights in the morgue was making his ailment that much worse and he gritted his teeth to prevent himself from screaming and causing another scene. The pain was proving to be too much though as he heard the female's voice in his head. 

 

_"You look sad when you think he can't see you."_

What was this? Was he remembering something? He can see flashes of light brown and the familiar lighting of the morgue. There was a grieving atmosphere then and it was fuzzy, very fuzzy. Not knowing what to do, he did what he thought was best. 

 

"JOHN!" 

 

Just like that, John spun around and saw Sherlock experiencing the most painful headache yet, and he rushed over to him. 

 

"SHERLOCK!" 

 

He heard the pain the younger man's voice and the fear, the fear of something he probably remembered, of what he was feeling at the moment. Molly, scared as she was, just stood there and figured it was best that somebody that Sherlock was used to seeing handled the situation. John grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders, careful not to agitate him further and then his doctor kicked in as he tried to look into Sherlock's eyes, but to no avail as they were closed and looked like they weren't opening anytime soon. 

 

"Sherlock what's wrong?" 

 

Sherlock let out a sob. 

 

"My head....I looked sad....." 

 

John frantically moved his hands to the detective's wrists and started rubbing them gently as he tried to calm down his scared friend. Sherlock's moans were very close to turning into screams and so John ditched the wrists and then pulled Sherlock into an embrace and started rocking back and forth, as they weren't around any Advil at the moment and Sherlock was in the midst of a breakdown. 

 

"Shhh...it's okay....I'm here Sherlock..." 

 

He clutched at John's shirt. 

 

"John...." 

 

John knew they couldn't stay anymore and then looked back at Molly and whispered, "Call a cab. Now." 

 

She sheepishly smiled and ran out of the room, leaving the two men in the company of each other.


	17. Chapter 17

While they were waiting for Molly to return with the news of their cab, John continued to hold Sherlock in his embrace and rock him back and forth to calm his friend's pained cries as his head pounded every other minute. John couldn't imagine what he was going through, sure he could feel a headache, but he couldn't feel the pain of trying to remember and what that causes in Sherlock's mind. Anytime he tried, he tried to put together the puzzle that would come to show a memory from events past, he would be met with the harsh denial of his head and would succumb to his awful migraines. John couldn't do anything except watch. It was just as painful. 

 

"Sherlock, please...calm down...." 

 

"Why did she say that?" 

 

"Say what?" 

 

"I'm sad...." 

 

John was starting to become puzzled. 

 

"Sherlock, who is "she"? Do you mean Molly?" 

 

Sherlock clearly wasn't in the right state of mind for John to be playing Therapist and Patient again, he wasn't even sure if Sherlock could hear him over the sound of his own agony. John's hand ran up and down his back, careful not to agitate him anymore than he already was. Sherlock would whimper and then give a tiny shout whenever he got a pain. This went on for some time before John heard him whisper, "I want to go home, John...I don't want to be here anymore..." 

 

John buried his face in Sherlock's soft curls and fought everything in his body to try and get a whiff of the heavenly aroma. He was trying everything he could to comfort him, but nothing was working. The only way John could even begin to help aid his friend's convalescence is by taking him to a familiar place because this clearly didn't go the way John hoped, it only added to the stress. 

 

"Okay, we're heading home, I'll give you some Advil when we get back...please calm down...." 

 

Sherlock sniffled and nodded so carefully that you would think his head was close to falling off if he moved it any faster. John closed his eyes and placed a light kiss on top of the massive, dark curls and prayed that Sherlock was too hysterical to notice that he even did such a thing. Maybe something deep down in him wanted this, but not like this, never like this. 

 

"Okay, John..." 

 

The long fingers only a clutch from pulling the fabric from John's plaid shirt right off of his skin. John never let his hand that was rubbing the soft shirt stopping to rest no matter how tired and achy it was. Come on Molly, hurry up! 

 

Almost immediately, she came running in the room again with her phone in her hand and waving it around frantically as she forced every power in her being to get her panicked words out. 

 

"The cab...the cab is downstairs! Like, right now!" 

 

John quickly removed his mouth from the depths of Sherlock's hair and gave a curt nod to let Molly know that he acknowledged her anxiety and he immediately removed his hand from Sherlock's back, sending the distressed man into even more pain at the brief separation. John could hear his breathing quicken and he was holding John even tighter if you could believe it. John's hand immediately found its way to Sherlock's desperate one and he calmly whispered, "Relax, Sherlock, I'm going to walk you to the taxi now so we can go back to Baker street." 

 

Sherlock agreed with this plan because he rose to his feet, albeit with a bit of staggering from the pain and John supported the detective as they made their way to their ride, slow and steady. Molly followed after them just to make sure Sherlock wouldn't have to end up in one of the hospital's cots. Lucky for the detective, that wasn't the case, they made it to the cab just fine. John carefully set Sherlock in cab and then closed the door with enough force to make sure that it was shut and that wouldn't bother Sherlock. Molly saw John stand outside the car for a moment and sigh before turning to face her. 

 

"Molly, I'm so sorry, this wasn't supposed to happen. It was supposed to help him---." 

 

She interrupted him. 

 

"John, it's okay, there's no need to apologize, just go and make sure he's okay, doctor." 

 

John's face straightened at being called by his profession and got the message. 

 

"Right. I'll text you later." 

 

He spun on his heel and hopped in besides Sherlock and Molly watched as the cab pulled away with the two men in tow.   
~~~~~~~  
"Easy, Sherlock, we're here." 

 

John was supporting Sherlock's back and waist up the stairs so he wouldn't fall and made sure to reassure him each step of the way. He threw up when they got out of the cab, thankfully too, John didn't have enough cash to pay the driver for the mess in the car. Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat when she heard John and Sherlock's loud, clumsy feet ring through the building's staircase. She placed a hand to her mouth as she saw her poor Sherlock suffering from the one thing that held most dear. She knew better than to say anything because John had his hands full already. John flashed her a look that signaled that he would tell her soon, just not at the moment.  

 

John escorted Sherlock to his room and gently and hastily placed him on his bed and removed his coat, his jacket, and his shoes so he wouldn't feel so suffocated and constricted. 

 

_"Help me Captain!"_

_"Hold on, corporal, we're almost there, the tent is just up ahead."_

_"Oh God, please end this pain!"_

_The injured solider let out a blood-curdling scream as they made their way to the infirmary tent that was already filled to the brim with the dying and already dead soldiers that went there to be healed but didn't make it their fast enough. John was moving as fast as he could, supporting the corporal that had a gaping hole in his leg; too close to the grenade the enemies threw. Shrapnel came flying at them and he got it worse. It was blazing out there, and John was pouring sweat, he had to save this life, he was a doctor, this is what his job is about. But you can't save everybody, right?_

_They make it inside the cooler environment that has the scents of antiseptic, blood, sweat, heat, and fear lingering in the air. He set the man down on an empty, blood-stained cot and started to inspect the wound._

_"Stay with me, don't you die on me...."_

_But it was too late, they took too long getting there. The soldier was taking his last breaths, and the very last one was, "I want to go home...Captain.....I don't want to be here anymore..."_

_His body went limp and paled almost automatically. John could do nothing. He stared at the life he couldn't save and muttered, "I was supposed to help you...."_

  
He snapped out of his brief flashback, he had to focus on the task at hand. He had to focus on Sherlock. Speaking of, he looked absolutely green and John rushed to the bathroom and retrieved the pail and darted back into the room and set it down on the floor right as Sherlock rolled over and threw up what little food he ate. John rubbed his back and soothing circles and tried to calm him down as all of this wasn't helping at the moment. John stood back up as Sherlock started to vomit again and retrieved pills, this time they were pills to make him drowsy whilst it cured his headache, Sherlock needed sleep. John needed sleep too. He gave Sherlock the pills and was motioning to the door so that he could leave, but he heard Sherlock's desperate plea, "Please don't leave, John..." 

 

John wanted to keep walking, leave Sherlock alone. But he sounded so weak and so helpless and so tormented. John had to turn back around and keep him company, it was the least he could do. He removed his jacket and shoes and laid down on the surprisingly soft bed, 

 

"Come here, Sherlock." 

 

The younger man curled up into John's open embrace, which tightened when the other placed their body there. Sherlock's head was resting on John's chest, and his hand rested on John's admittedly pudgy stomach, and his legs intertwined with the shorter ones. John had his hand resting on Sherlock's back, but it sometimes made its way up to Sherlock's hair and gave a few comforting rubs. Pretty soon, both of them were comfortable and tired enough to fall asleep. John was only graced with a few minutes of sleep when his phone went off. With one eye opened, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and answered it. 

 

"M'yello?" 

 

"John." 

 

"Greg?" 


	18. Chapter 18

"Greg?" 

 

"Yes, it's me." 

 

John was confused, for starters, he was half-awake and could barely see straight, as that five minutes of slumber that he got was enough to send him in a deep sleep for a few hours, until Greg called, that is. 

 

"Why are you calling?" 

 

"Because I need to talk to you and Sherlock, well more so you." 

 

John gave something between a moan and a yawn when he heard that he was being summoned to Scotland Yard with the current drowsy state he found himself in. Lestrade was silent, but John knew that was because he was trying to figure out what was wrong with the doctor. He finally heard the DI speak up and ask, "You alright?" 

 

John shook his head, but then remembered that he was on the phone with him and they were not speaking face-to-face. 

 

"Yes, yeah, you just caught me in the middle of a kip, is all." 

 

"Sorry about that." 

 

John inhaled and then ran a hand through his hair that he noticed was going to need to be done sooner or later, he probably looked like a shaggy mess. 

 

"No, it's fine. I'll pass out from exhaustion some way or another." 

 

That caught a chuckle from the person on the other line. 

 

"Yes, you should be so lucky." 

 

John found himself smiling but then returned back to the original reason why Lestrade called in the first place. 

 

"So, what do you need?" 

 

"I heard that you took Sherlock to Barts to help him get his memory back, or some parts of it. And I was thinking, maybe if you bring him down here, to the crime scene, maybe that will help jog his mind, or something along that line." 

 

John's hand that rested on the sleeping man's back slowly started moving up and down on it. He could feel the soft snoring that came from Sherlock on his side. He looked down and saw that Sherlock was fast asleep from a mix of the medicine and just his overall mental and probably physical exhaustion. He was clutching to John's shirt like he would be swept away at any given moment. His face was peaceful, but if John knew what was going to happen next, he would probably have to wake him up and help him deal with his nightmare that was his memories. Snapping back to the man on the phone, John answered, "Thank you for the offer, Lestrade but I think I'll have to get back to you on that. Sherlock's not feeling too well at the moment." 

 

"What's wrong?" 

 

He could hear the concern in his voice. It was understandable, Greg knew Sherlock longer than John and he cared about him as well. 

 

"I took him to Barts, like you said, and everything was going so well, until Molly said something, and it must have triggered something because he got this very strong migraine and was almost to the point of tears in my arms. He was saying that he looked sad, but I'm not sure what that means because he wasn't speaking in full sentences. I had to have Molly call a taxi and take him back home. He threw up a few times until I gave him tablets to ease his pain and he fell asleep soon after." 

 

There was a brief silence between the two, even Sherlock's snoring seemed to halt at that exact moment. John's hand slid to the dark mass that is Sherlock's hair and started to massage the aching head. It seemed like an eternity before either of them picked up the conversation again. 

 

"I feel sorry for him, John, I really do. He's a right git sometimes and he was too smart for his own good at other moments, but he doesn't deserve this." 

 

"Does anybody?" 

 

He heard the hoarse huff through the receiver. 

 

"Well, whenever he feels up to it, give me a ring." 

 

Before he could hang up, John said, "Wait, Greg. What is this case about? I've seen it all over the telly, Sherlock did too, that's why he wanted to see you initially. I said no because I didn't think he was ready for all of that, and from I saw today, I'm not sure if he can do this." 

 

"It's a murder case, well,  _murders_. We got a serial killer, calls himself 'Smiley' sick bloke, likes to carve smiles into his victims' face after he engraves his name into their skin." 

 

"That sounds serious. How long has this been going on?" 

 

"Well, it started with kidnappings here and there, after the whole...incident with Sherlock and Moriarty....and then the bodies started showing up." 

 

Did John just hear him right? Somebody started serial killing after the whole scene at Barts, before Sherlock.....It's still hard. It's hard to even think about it, talk about it, picture, even. Sherlock wasn't dead and God was John thankful for that. He could barely handle standing at the newly planted headstone, with his friend's name on it. He had so much to say, but he couldn't bring himself to do it, because Sherlock Holmes will never die. His body could be getting hollowed out by maggots, but John knew better. Sherlock would always be there with John whether in spirit or in person, he would still be dancing with his violin in his flat, he would still be pestering Mrs. Hudson to bake her chocolate chip cookies, he would still find a way to be around. It will always be Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. 

 

"Do you think it's safe enough for Sherlock to be running around London while a serial killer's haunting the streets?" 

 

"To tell you the truth, no, I don't think so. It's not safe at all. But when did Sherlock ever do 'safe'?" 

 

John had a hard time coming up with a counter-argument.

 

"Sherlock spent most of his time on crime scenes, this can help him more than Barts could." 

 

"Yes but his headaches...." 

 

"I understand that John, but we have to try something, or else he will just keep suffering and not even know why." 

 

He did have a point. 

 

"Besides, I know that you'll make sure no harm comes to him, John." 

 

"You're absolutely right. Nobody is going to lay a finger on him, not while I'm with him, or ever." 

 

"Right, that's what I thought. See you later." 

 

John hung up and then placed the phone on the nightstand next to his side of the bed and then pulled Sherlock closer to him. He wouldn't normally do this but Sherlock was so desperate and panicking and in so much pain that he couldn't deny him. This can also pass as an excuse to cuddle with him, because normally, Sherlock wouldn't anybody, save for Mrs. Hudson, who was the only one that he allowed to get close enough to him on a regular basis. John always related Sherlock to those Youtube videos of the incredibly hostile and grouchy cats that would swat and hiss at whoever was attempting to touch them. Well, he wasn't a cat, but he could very well pass as one, he curls up into a ball, he grooms like one, he hissed at John once, and he could have sworn that he heard Sherlock growl while watching telly with John. Sherlock's hair was now tickling John's nose and his hand moved to John's chest, right on top of his heart. John found himself perfectly comfortable and was attempting sleep for the second time when Sherlock's nails dug into his chest, making him yelp out of pain. 

 

"Sherlock..." 

 

The detective's face was scrunched up as he dreamt about the nightmare. His head was shaking back and forth and he was murmuring but John couldn't hear at first. Then he started to speak louder. 

 

"No, no don't...." 

 

John wanted to wake him, but Sherlock was squeezing the life out of him and he couldn't pry him off. 

 

"Sherl..." 

 

"STOP! NO! JOHN!!!" 

 

John did his best to try and comfort Sherlock as the other started flailing about, like he was falling. John held onto the hand that was latched to his skin and propped the both of them up and wrapped Sherlock in the tightest hug he could muster without hurting him. Sherlock was squirming around in the doctor's arms and would give a shout of John's name. He wasn't crying, but he was close to it. John knew that he was going to have a monster headache, but he couldn't give him any more medicine. 

 

"SHERLOCK, WAKE UP!" 

 

"NO!!!" 

 

John had no choice but to pull him out of the embrace and to start shaking Sherlock. Not aggressively hard, but with enough force to wake him up without hurting him any more than he already was. Sherlock's eyes were squeezed together and he tried to fight John but the ex-soldier was stronger and he kept shaking him. John was panicking just as much as his friend was. He didn't want to be reminded of it, he would want to remember every day but that one. He can't feel all those emotions that coursed through him. 

 

"SHERLOCK, YOU'RE DREAMING!" 

 

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he screamed and looked around the room, John held him in place. He was drenched in sweat and his breathing was frantic and unstable. He grabbed John's arms instinctively as he took in his surroundings. His terrified eyes, colored grey now because he was so emotional and high-strung. Sherlock's lip quivered as he and John made eye contact. Intimate, sorrowful, tense eye contact. 

 

"John?" 

 

John stared at the crest-fallen expression on his best friend's face and just pulled him back into his bear hug. Sherlock was silent, but John could feel the soft fingers resting on the back of his neck. 

 

"I...fell...John..." 

 

"Shhh....." 


	19. Chapter 19

"I...fell...John..." 

 

John's hand was pressed to the back of Sherlock's head, he wasn't complaining about any headaches yet, but he was waiting for the moment that Sherlock would start to whine and reach for the affected area. He was very much like a child when he wasn't feeling well. When he got colds, he would lay pitifully on the couch and lay with John because he felt that head rubs was one of the things that made him well again, but John knew that Sherlock just wanted an excuse to cuddle up with him, and he didn't mind the excuses either. Even high-functioning sociopaths need affection too. 

 

"What did you dream about this time?" 

 

Sherlock's shuddering seemed to increase as he started his explanation. 

 

"I was...I think it was a roof again...and the clouds were grey, and then I heard you yell my name....and I..I...fell." 

 

John kissed his head, he was doing that a lot recently. Maybe it was because he enjoyed doing it and he wanted Sherlock calmed and relaxed. Besides, he wasn't complaining right? And he's not taking advantage of him, it's just a harmless kiss. It's not like it was on the lips or anything. 

 

"What about your head? Does it hurt?" 

 

His hand started feeling around the soft curls that adorned the other's head. He could never get over Sherlock's hair, there were so many people who would kill for his hair, and occasionally, they do. The detective's head moved side-to-side instead of voicing his answer. John took that as a good sign, it might be the medicine doing this to him, or maybe he was starting to get better, hopefully it was the latter because then he could take Sherlock to the crime scene and have him solve the crime, be the old Sherlock, be  _his_  Sherlock. Sure he wouldn't be able to hold him like that anymore but it would be worth it if he can see Sherlock be brilliant again, watch him tear down the other officers when they decide to insult him, dish out deductions as if it were like reciting the alphabet and then walking away from the scene leaving everybody in awe as he solved the case in less than a day, This is better than Sherlock being dead, but it's worse than Sherlock being back to normal, well, his version of normal at least. 

 

"That's good. Hopefully it stays like that." 

 

Sherlock breathed out shakily. 

 

John figured this would be the right time to tell Sherlock about the case, since he knew that they would end up going anyway. 

 

"So, Sherlock, Greg called me." 

 

"Who?" 

 

"The man you tapped at the pub? Remember?"

 

Sherlock thought for a moment and then made a noise to show that he could recall that memory and John continued. 

 

"He called me, while you were sleeping and told me about the case he was working on." 

 

He could hear Sherlock becoming a bit more eager as John was talking. It made the doctor smile to himself as he the other's tone changed. 

 

"He said that he wants us to come and help him solve it." 

 

Sherlock sat up and looked John directly in the eyes. John was pleading for Sherlock to stop staring at him with that face that he couldn't handle. His eyes were so...whimsical and wonderful to look at and get lost in. If John squinted, he could swear that he saw a flicker in Sherlock's eyes, a light that he hasn't seen in so long and was so glad that it made its appearance. Test tubes and morgues weren't enough for Sherlock to remember, but crime scenes were Sherlock's real passion. He wasn't a Consulting Chemist, he was a Consulting Detective, and the only one in the world. 

 

"And what did you say?" 

 

John gave a moments' pause before he answered. He wanted to take in the way they were at the moment. He wanted to get Sherlock's scent in his head, imprinted into the part of his brain that he had everything else Sherlock-related implanted. If he couldn't have Sherlock physically, then there would always be his memories that they had together, in 221b, on their cases. 

 

"I said that we should wait until you start feeling better before I take you back out." 

 

Sherlock's eye twinkle was gone and the smile that he was forming stopped and reverted back to the frown he wore. John mentally groaned as he knew where this was going. 

 

"But I don't have a headache now, John." 

 

"I know that ,Sherlock, but the reason that we're both inside of your room right now is because you almost collapsed in the morgue from your migraine. You scared me, Sherlock." 

 

Sherlock's eyes went wide at John's statement. For a long while, they were both sitting on the younger man's bed, just staring at each other in a way lovers wouldn't even dare to look at each other. Sherlock was taken aback by the words that came out of the other's mouth, whereas John looked a little surprised that something like that even came out of his mouth. 

 

"John. I don't understand." 

 

"What is there to understand, Sherlock?" 

 

Sherlock looked down and then met John's gaze again. 

 

"Why did I scare you? You don't know me...." 

 

"Sherlock, I---" 

 

"I don't know you..." 

 

John held his hand up. 

 

"Before you say anything else let me explain something to you." 

 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and gave John a sort of exasperated look, which John gladly ignored and grabbed Sherlock's face in his hands. He couldn't place Sherlock's face at the action so he started talking. 

 

"Sherlock, I do know you. I probably know you better than you know yourself, and at the moment, that's the truth. Sherlock, you're my best friend and I don't want to see you like this, it upsets me. I want the old Sherlock back, I want the one---the one that all you had to do was look at him and see his brilliance. Who wasn't afraid to cut somebody down to size if they stepped too far, back when you were perfect." 

 

"Are you suggesting I'm imperfect now?" 

 

John shook his head. 

 

"No, I'm simply saying that you are flawed now. But we can change that." 

 

"....And...is that what you want, John? For me to be normal?" 

 

John nodded, 

 

"Of course I do, Sherlock." 

 

"So why won't you take me to the crime scene? If that is going to help me get my memory back, why don't we take the chance?" 

 

"You're not ready yet, Sherlock, the morgue...." 

 

"But that was because she said something....Molly said something that made me remember, and then I got the headache. And maybe it won't happen there, how would we know?" 

 

"I don't want to take that chance." 

 

Sherlock looked defeated for a moment. John hated doing this, but he was worried for Sherlock's health, if he were to over-work himself, they would both have to deal with the consequences that could result in a very ill and amnesiac Sherlock. John doesn't need anybody to hurt anymore, he needs to do what he went to school for, what he spent half of his life doing. He needed to heal Sherlock. He needed to heal the both of them, and if this is what Sherlock wants, then they would have to do it and take every risk that was there. It's always darkest before the dawn. 

 

John grabbed Sherlock's hands and gave them a squeeze. 

 

"Okay Sherlock, we'll do this your way. But if you even feel one twinge of pain, you better tell me or you won't be able to leave the house for a long while." 

 

Sherlock could barely contain his smile. 

 

"Yes, John I understand. I'll get dressed right now." 

 

He got up off the bed and then walked over to his closet, causing John to leave the room to give him privacy. 


	20. Chapter 20

John was patiently waiting for Sherlock to get prepared for their little outing. Of course, Sherlock only had to put on his socks and shoes and coat because John hadn't gotten that far in stripping him while he was asleep, he was hoping to get a few winks himself but things came up. Sherlock emerged from his room and stared at John with his smile tucked away and his hands clasped together. 

 

"You ready to go, Sherlock?" 

 

Sherlock nodded. 

 

"Yes, I am. I'm grateful that you would even want to take me. I know this is very stressful for you, and I'm sorry for that." 

 

John shook his head. 

 

"Well, yes, it has been stressful, but it's worth it. I would do anything to make sure you get better." 

 

"Even if it kills you?" 

 

John didn't nod at the question, he just kind of tilted his head to show that he was considering it. 

 

"I don't think it would have to come to that but if it does, we'll see." 

 

Sherlock smiled. 

 

"That we will John, though I preferred it if you stayed alive." 

 

"On that, we can both agree." 

 

John never noticed that Sherlock was a lot more pleasant to be around as of late. Sure he was a bit prickly when he first woke up, but John couldn't blame him. He was being bombarded by John's pleas that they were best friends and such and so he likely got overwhelmed and shutdown and Mycroft didn't help either. But Sherlock seemed to smile more, when he wasn't having the flashbacks and migraines that is, and he seemed to be more sociable than before the accident, like you could have a conversation with him without it turning into a screaming match or a scientific explanation of something or another. John loved Sherlock, but he wouldn't mind of Sherlock kept acting this way. He doesn't want to completely change who Sherlock is, he doesn't mind seeing Sherlock conduct his experiments or playing his violin at three in the morning, he welcomed it in fact, but maybe if there was a bit of change in his attitude....No. How could he even think about trying to alter his best friend's personality? That's what made Sherlock, Sherlock! Sure he may get upset at the other at times, but at the end of the day, they would both be huddled on their chairs watching television together, sometimes he could even convince Sherlock to watch an episode of Doctor Who or something that he knew Sherlock had never seen before but would enjoy no matter how much he would complain about it. That was how they worked. 

 

"Well, we better be off now, before it gets dark outside." 

 

Sherlock gave no response. John whipped his phone out and started to dial Greg's number. After a few rings, he answered. 

 

"John! Changing your mind so soon, huh?" 

 

"Yeah, Sherlock kind've swayed my mind a bit."

 

"I'll bet." 

 

"But I'm just calling to let you know that we're heading over the scene now, we just need an address." 

 

"Oh yeah, yeah." 

 

John motioned for Sherlock to start heading out the door and followed after him as he was given the directions to the crime scene. 

~~~~~~~

When they got there, the place was flooded with cops surveying the scene and a few journalists and news reporters hounding the police that were guarding the barricades for the crime scene with questions that they couldn't answer and wouldn't be able to even if they did. John looked over at Sherlock who seemed to be a bit anxious by all of the noises and people. He inched closer to John and whispered, "I think I should have waited a bit before coming." 

 

"Why, are you getting a headache?" 

 

He shook his head. 

 

"There's...how many cops are assigned to a crime scene usually?" 

 

"I should be asking you that because I don't know myself. I know that it shouldn't be this many, but then again it's not everyday Scotland Yard stumbles across a serial killer, and a dangerous one at that." 

 

"Do you see Graham anywhere?" 

 

John's brows furrowed as he gave Sherlock a quick glare. 

 

"No, I don't see  _Greg_ anywhere." 

 

Sherlock was confused now. 

 

"Why do you say Greg?" 

 

"Because that's his name Sherlock. You got his name right the first time you met him, why can't you get it right now?" 

 

Sherlock simply shrugged, signaling that he was not about to have an argument at that moment and John gladly agreed. It didn't take long until he saw the familiar silver hair among the brown curly hair that belonged to none other than Sally Donovan. John groaned and prayed that she would be too wrapped up in the reporters to notice Sherlock back from the dead. The last thing he needs to hear is, "Hello, Freak." 

 

Not wanting to actually go over to all of the camera flashes and loud voices of people hungry for the necessary and interesting facts to put in their tabloids, and to announce on the news. He texted Lestrade that they were waiting at the entrance of the crime scene and to meet them there. Sherlock was analyzing everything that there was to look at. John could almost say that he was deducing, but he doesn't understand Sherlock's mind, and he probably never will. 

 

"Oi, John!" 

 

John's head snapped in the direction he heard the voice coming from. There was Greg walking over to them with his phone in his hand and leaving Sally to fend for herself while the reporters were getting ravenous. When he saw Sherlock, his smile widened. 

 

"It's good to see you, Sherlock." 

 

Sherlock smiled and gave a simple nod. 

 

"John almost didn't let me come." 

 

"Yeah, I heard that you weren't feeling too well. I'm glad that changed." 

 

John cut in, "But try not to overwork yourself, please." 

 

"I'll try not to."

 

There was a brief pause before they heard a familiar voice. 

 

"Is that...? Freak?" 

 

John's heart fell out of his chest. 


	21. Chapter 21

John and Greg flashed looks at each other, while Sherlock was staring in the direction where the voice came from. Both of the other men were both trying to mask their panic from Sherlock but were failing miserably. They both looked over and saw Sally marching over with a sort of bewildered look on her face, along with a smidge of hatred coming back to her face. 

 

_'You have all the press surrounding you and yet you're coming over here?'_

"Are they coming over here?" Sherlock asked John. 

 

As Sally neared, her eyes widened in amazement, she was staring right at the deceased Sherlock Holmes! She was completely unaware that the reporters snuck inside of the crime scene because she turned around to see that they were following after her like a pack of baby ducks would their mother. Greg got John's attention and said, "Hurry." 

 

John grabbed Sherlock's arm. 

 

"Time to go, Sherlock." 

 

"But we've only just gotten here." 

 

"We'll come back later...just...not right now." 

 

But it was too late. All three of them could hear several voices shout, "IT'S SHERLOCK HOLMES, BACK FROM THE DEAD!" 

 

John had to brace himself and his friend for what was about to happen. He could hear Lestrade yelling at them to take one of the cars back while holding Sally by her arm as if he was ready to give her a verbal lashing. It was all too much, everything seemed to be moving slowly, they were surrounded by flashes of white and questions asked all at one time. John could only catch a few. 

 

"Why did you fake your death?"

 

"You look a little pale, are you back on drugs?" 

 

"Was this all a set-up just like Moriarty?" 

 

"Were you ever going to reveal to us what actually happened?" 

 

"Sherlock do you understand that many people hate you for making Moriarty up, right?" 

 

John couldn't explain how sorry he felt for his friend, he looked like a deer in headlights. He was so lost and confused, and he even looked scared. He was getting ambushed by these people and John knew that Sherlock's anxiety wasn't always the best so he could only imagine how he felt. Eyes darted back over to Greg who was shouting at Sally, but she was too busy talking about 'The Freak' being alive to hear a word he was saying. He heard Sherlock responding to the questions. 

 

"What?" 

 

"Who's Moriarty?"

 

"I don't know what you're talking about?" 

 

The John heard him flat out begging. 

 

"Please leave me alone. John I want to leave." 

 

But like the vultures they are, they wouldn't let up. Clearly they can't tell that he was in distress and was overwhelmed and probably on the verge of passing out but they didn't care about that. They only want just enough to get their paycheck and to become more famous than the night before. John never liked reporters, and from what he was experiencing now made him loathe them. He gave another tug on Sherlock's coat sleeve and those grey eyes met his own. They were blue now, with a hint of gold in them. That was John's cue to rush him out of there. Everything sounded distant to John. The incessant shouting of the ravenous journalists with Greg's own shouts blending in with them, they all sounded so far away. It was Sherlock's and his own breathing that he could hear clearly. Each heartbeat. John could hear his breathing and Sherlock's as if it were in his own head. That's all that mattered, just the two of them. He needed to get Sherlock home, he needed to shut the curtains, tell Mrs. Hudson to not come upstairs for a while and if he needed to, hold him. He would hold Sherlock all night. At this point, he doesn't even care if it's gay or not, Sherlock needs him. 

 

It seemed like an eternity before they finally made it to the police car that was waiting for them, John swung the door open and let Sherlock crawl inside first since he was the one they were after. As soon as John was able to go inside and closed the door, the horde showed up with cameras, notepads, microphones, anything they needed to get Sherlock to talk. They looked like zombies, they were literally smashing their faces onto the window and trying to catch photos of the both of them, and no doubt at least all of the photos were going to come out blurry because the car was already in motion. John saw that Sherlock seemed to be in the midst of an anxiety attack and the best he could offer right now was his hand, which Sherlock gladly took. He rubbed the younger's man hand with the pad of his thumb and never lost eye contact with him. They were both staring at each other now, and for a moment, nothing else was there. Their surroundings were out of focus, but they were both clear as day. Sherlock's eyes seemed even brighter, even though they still held the fear and desperation of the attack that they experienced. His breathing was unsteady, and he was trying his damnedest to not breakdown right then and there, but there was something about staring at John that brought a certain peace to him. It was a mutual effect. 

 

"Alright, we're here." 

 

Both of them jumped and John immediately moved to console him, he was already jumpy from the whole ordeal and he doesn't need to get worked up anymore. 

 

"Shh...We're here, Sherlock." 

 

"Home?" 

 

John was so glad that he started referring to 221b as his home now. That's what it should be, and that's how it will remain. Sherlock grabbed John's hand and slowly started exiting the car, only letting go for a few moments. John let their hands reconnect because it made Sherlock calm down, and he ignored the looks the cop was probably giving him. He gave a curt nod and then opened the door to their flat and made their way up the stairs.   
~~~~~~

_"Well well, the great detective is back from the dead."_

_"Yes, he is as I am sure you are watching the news right now. Quite the story."_

_"Yes, the news stations are going mad with this new story. Sherlock Holmes back from the dead."_

_"And what do you think of it?"_

_"....I don't."_

_"Well, surely this has some sort of effect on you. I mean, after that whole fiasco with Moriarty..."_

_"I don't think it's any of your business."_

_"It is now, whether you like it or not."_

_A deep sound that passed for a chuckle was heard._

_"I am feeling a bit drained so I'm afraid I'll be hanging up now. Take care, and I'll see you soon...Mycroft."_

The call was ended. 


	22. Chapter 22

John helped Sherlock over to the couch and gently sent him down. Sherlock refused to let go of John and was softly calling his name as John tried to help him remove his coat. He allowed one hand to be occupied with Sherlock's, just to put him at ease. 

 

"Easy, Sherlock, calm down." 

 

"Why were they asking me all of those questions? What were they talking about?" 

 

John finally managed to slip the coat off of him and place it on the coat rack along with his. He wanted to go and make tea but he doesn't think Sherlock is in the mood to really drink anything at the moment. John took a seat with him on the couch and placed one hand on his back and rubbed soothing circles on it and let Sherlock's long fingers intertwine with the free hand. John didn't even know where to start. There was so much to say, how can explain the whole thing with Moriarty? It was also him not wanting to relive it, even if he is only retelling what went down. It was bad enough that he had to dream about his "suicide" over and over again, but to have to explain why he can't remember anything but that is also difficult. John didn't want to keep anymore information from him, but this would have to wait another day, 

 

"Don't worry about them, Sherlock. They're just a bunch of wankers who don't have anything better to do than harass people." 

 

"That woman, the one who told them about me, why did she call me 'freak?'."

 

John swallowed the lump in his throat. He should have seen this coming. That word was bound to come up sooner or later, if not from her, then from somebody on the telly, or the internet, or even in the street. John couldn't stand it. He hated whenever that word was directed towards Sherlock, he knew that the word bothered him more than he let on. He's seen the detective crumble on the couch after a case or another verbal war with Sally and Anderson and sulk for hours. He's been called a freak for his whole life and John could only imagine how it made him feel. Sherlock isn't a bad person, he can be nice and sociable when he wants to, it's just that nobody has ever given him the chance because they immediately write him off as a person to be ignored and treated with disdain. Sure Sherlock wasn't completely innocent either, but he rarely was the one to start a fight. John's even been guilty of dismissing him at times, as well as the rest of his friends and he's never said anything to them about it because people have been doing it to him for so long. Looking at him now, John realized, he was all Sherlock had at the moment. His brother practically stole him from the hospital and then dropped him here like an abandoned child and then pranced off to do his top-secret missions and be the British government, with only the occasional phone-calls that only lasted a few minutes because he's so busy being Mycroft Holmes that he can't even take the time to check on his little brother. He had no other friends, Greg was wrapped up in the case, and...well, that was it. The only person that was left was...John, always John. 

 

Well, of course, he would be, that's his Sherlock, he would always be there for him. He hasn't forgotten about Sherlock's question, so with a sigh and a squeeze of the hand, he answered. 

 

"She said that because...." 

 

_'No lying this time.'_

"Because....she doesn't like you." 

 

Sherlock's eyes widened and it hurt John to tell him that. 

 

"Why doesn't she like me?" 

 

"Well, it's not just her, it's...everybody..." 

 

John almost wished he could take that back. The look in Sherlock's eyes told John that he would have to get a box of tissues ready. He immediately moved closer, Sherlock wasn't crying, but his eyes were glossy and he could see the little pool of tears in his eyes. John never wants to see Sherlock this vulnerable anymore. Sherlock would be disgusted with himself for showing this much emotion, but with everything he's been through, this is well-deserved. 

 

"Nobody likes me? How long has this been going on?" 

 

"I remember you telling me that's it's been like this since you were in primary school." 

 

Sherlock's eyes danced away from John's. 

 

"So none of you like me?" 

 

John shook his head and held Sherlock's hand even tighter. 

 

"Hey, what have I been telling you before? From the moment you woke up, I've been telling you that we're friends, right? Best friends even." 

 

Sherlock nodded like a child who was mourning the loss of his favorite toy and John couldn't help but smile. John realized that he wasn't getting through to Sherlock and that he would have to say what he always felt, he knows that he had the chance before, but Sherlock "died" and John kicked himself over and over again for not telling him just how much he means to the once broken ex-solider, and this seems like as good a time as any. John forced Sherlock to look at him, and really look, not just meet his eyes, he wanted eye contact, he wanted to see every color in his eyes and he wanted Sherlock to hear him, because he wasn't going to repeat himself. 

 

"Listen to me, Sherlock, okay? I love you. Yes, that's right,  I said it. I love you, you're the best friend I've ever had and I don't know where I would be without you." 

 

Well, he could have a guess, six feet under because he put a bullet in his head, but Sherlock didn't need to know that. 

 

"You gave me purpose and hope when I had none. I was so alone, Sherlock, I had no one to talk to, no none to go through my problems with me. I had no one to laugh with or hang with. All I had was my gun, my cane, my shitty apartment, and my empty blog. Never in my life would I ever imagine that I would meet somebody like you, Sherlock. I got everything I wanted and more when we met in the morgue. You got rid of my limp, you showed me how much fun it was to run around London chasing after a cab, you gave me a new home and a reason to live and I am forever in your debt." 

 

John's smile grew as he saw Sherlock's mouth start to open from  the surprising confession. 

 

"So don't ever worry about people like Sally, or anybody not liking you, because I like you, Lestrade likes you, Mrs. Hudson loves you like you were her own son, Molly likes you, and Mycroft...he's a funny one when it comes to affection, but he does love you, Sherlock." 

 

Sherlock couldn't find a word to say and John was happy. Did it help Sherlock remember? Probably. Did it answer all of Sherlock's questions? Not all, but most of them. It was baby steps. 

 

"Now, I'm going to make some tea, do you want a cup?"

 

Sherlock gave a silent yes as he was still letting the words sink in. John didn't know why but he placed a kiss on Sherlock's forehead before heading to the kitchen. It felt right. John loved Sherlock like a friend, right? It's perfectly okay, it was just a friendly kiss. Now he found himself thinking about it, but it only took one look at Sherlock to make John forget about it. 

~~~~~~~~~  
"I'm telling you, the freak's back!" 

 

Anderson scowled. 

 

"What do you mean 'back'? You mean like sprouting out of his corpse like the undead? Rubbish." 

 

Sally crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. 

 

"I'm telling the truth, Philip, I saw him, and he's all over the papers, and the news stations! Where have you been all this time?" 

 

Anderson fussed around before answering. 

 

"I was sick, remember? I had to take a week off for bed rest." 

 

"And you watched no television at all?" 

 

He shook his head. 

 

"I was sleeping all day, minus the medicine and food and bathroom breaks. Plus the wife sat in front of it all day watching her soaps and whatnot." 

 

Sally made a sympathetic grunt. They were on a crime scene with Lestrade, the killer attacked again. This time it's two deaths, the killer is getting bold. Or possibly sending a warning. 

 

"Alright, that's enough chit-chat, get back to work Anderson, Donovan." 

 

They both glanced at each other, but complied to the order and went about the scene, leaving Lestrade by himself. He walked around, searching for any clues he may have missed the first time, going around all of the trees of the building, looking at the pavement, making sure he does his job properly. He walked inside of the building and headed to the first floor, where they were found. Two bodies this time. The smell was pungent and awful, Lestrade had to cover his nose and mouth with his sleeve so he wouldn't vomit and contaminate the crime scene. Just like the other victims, he carved a smile into their face and then signed his name. They were stabbed repeatedly, the blood soaking through their clothes. They were two men, their identities would be confirmed later. As he started circling the corpses, he stepped in something, a puddle of something, actually. It was too far away from the bodies, but he knew that it came from them. It was their blood. He slowly trailed where the blood was coming from when his eyes stopped on the wall. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open and he whipped out his phone in record time and punched in John's number. 

 

"Hello?" 

 

"John, bring Sherlock with you right now!" 

 

"Greg? W-what's going on?" 

 

Greg took the phone away from his ear and then gave the wall a once-over. This was bad.

 


	23. Chapter 23

"Greg, what's wrong, and why do I need to bring Sherlock? Where are you?" 

 

"I'm at a crime scene, the killer attacked again, there's two bodies this time." 

 

"What?" 

 

"Yeah, I know, they're getting bold. But that's not the troubling issue. I wouldn't have called you for something like this." 

 

John looked over at Sherlock who found his violin and started inspecting it, he was plucking at the strings and then grabbed the bow and tried to play it. He was awful. John frowned because he looked like he was struggling and that was the one thing Sherlock never had any trouble with. He loved the violin and played it beautifully. 

 

"What is it?" 

 

"The killer scribbled something on the wall...it's very...troubling." 

 

John didn't like the sound of that. He checked Sherlock one more time to see him still fiddling with the instrument. It would only be a matter of time before he would get frustrated or bored and start looking for something else to keep him busy. John really didn't want to bring Sherlock anywhere with a serial killer on the loose, especially when it's late outside and Greg's shaken about this whole thing. But if he was telling John to see what he found at the scene, then he would have no choice but to, and he has to bring Sherlock. He's not going to leave him alone. 

 

"Alright, I understand that this is serious, just give me an address and I'll be there." 

 

"Thank you, John..."

 

John waved his hand to catch Sherlock's attention. 

 

"Yes, John?" 

 

John pulled the phone away from his ear and covered the mouthpiece so he wouldn't confuse Lestrade. 

 

"Sherlock get dressed." 

 

"But it's late outside, where are we going?" 

 

"To see Lestrade." 

 

Sherlock looked like he had something else to say, but kept it to himself and then rose from the couch and walked to his room to get dressed. They were getting ready for bed, as it was almost eleven thirty and from the whole situation earlier that day, they were pretty tired. But one of the perks of helping your detective friend is that you never have to worry about getting your full eight hours of sleep because chances are, you'll never have them! He felt bad for making Sherlock get dressed because he was visibly tired, but if this was going to interfere with their lives in a negative way, then they would have to deal with the matter immediately. Sleep can wait. He pressed the phone back to his ear. 

 

"Sorry, what was it again?" 

~~~~~~~~  
About ten minutes later they showed up, it wasn't that far from Baker Street, actually, but they took a cab because neither of them had it in them to walk that distance. As soon as they show up, they were ambushed by Sally and Anderson. John pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose to repress all of his rage that was coming to him. 

 

"Look, it's the freak! Do you believe me now?" 

 

Anderson froze in his spot. 

 

"Well I'll be damned, freak! You're back from the dead!" 

 

Sherlock didn't respond to either of them. He shuffled closer to John. 

 

"I don't know who any of you are, so can you let me pass?" 

 

They gave each other smug glances. 

 

"Oh so what, you come back from the dead and then act like you don't no anybody? Jesus, Sherlock, I didn't think death would change you this much!" 

 

Sally snickered. 

 

"Yeah, usually most people decay and rot when they die, but not you it seems. Psychopaths don't die like normal people." 

 

John really wasn't in the mood for this today. He immediately grabbed Sherlock's arm and told him to walk around them and meet Lestrade. When he was out of earshot, John leaned in close and talked to Sally and Anderson in a hushed yell because he was tired and the last thing he needed to do was shout to the top of his lungs in a relatively quiet place because of two people who pick the wrong times to irritate him.

 

"Listen up you two, I'm going to need you to cut back on the insults." 

 

Sally's stance got defensive. 

 

"Why should I?" 

 

"Because....because when he says that he doesn't remember you, he means it. He has amnesia, so to him, you're all new faces." 

 

That got their attention. 

 

"Are you serious? Him out of all people?" 

 

John nodded. 

 

"I'm just as surprised as you are, believe me." 

 

Anderson shrugged. 

 

"You're bringing him to a crime scene at almost midnight when there's a serial killer on the loose to help him..." 

 

"Remember. And it wasn't my idea, Greg called me and told me that he found something and that I needed to bring him. So please, do me a favor and keep your snide remarks to yourself. It seems like kind of a low blow for you to be harassing somebody that is telling you to leave them alone." 

 

They both gave resigned huffs and moved out of his way to let him pass. He saw both Sherlock and Greg staring at the wall with wide eyes. It made John nervous so he quickened his pace to meet up with the two. What he found had him in shock too. 

 

**_"Welcome back, Mr. Holmes! We'll be seeing each other very soon."_ **

****

John reverted back to his army days and walked right up to Lestrade and demanded answers. 

 

"What is this?" He wasn't asking out of curiosity, but because he was angry and there was going to be hell to pay in a moment. Lestrade couldn't take his eyes off of the wall, the message was that unnerving. 

 

"I-I, it had to be the killer...It's the same writing that's on the bodies." 

 

"How does he know?" 

 

Greg turned to make eye contact. 

 

"He must have...seen the news earlier today, it was all over the telly." 

 

Sherlock cut in.

 

"Do I know him?" 

 

John's face softened. He knew that Sherlock understood that he was being threatened by a deranged killer, but what hurt him is that, he didn't ask if he was going to die, or if he was going to get hurt, he asked if he knew that person. John wasn't sure how to react to that. No matter what, Sherlock would always protect his mind over his body, and he was more worried about remembering things than he was his well-being. 

 

"No Sherlock, you don't." 

 

Greg intervened. 

 

"Look I don't know what we're facing right now, but you two should probably get back because chances are he's prowling the streets, looking for his next target and I don't want it to be neither of you." 

 

John had a ferocity in his eyes at Greg's statement. Sherlock is not going to be his next target, nobody is. This guy has to be stopped, and Sherlock has to get his memory back. 

 

"Yeah, yeah, alright, we'll head back now and I'll call you if anything happens. Come on Sherlock!" 

 

"We're leaving already?" 

 

"Yep, Greg only wanted to show this to us. We have to hurry back home now and I've no money for a taxi so we have to walk." 

 

Sherlock tried to keep up with John's unusually quick pace, for such short legs, they move very fast when they want. Sherlock didn't argue, as he could tell John wasn't in the mood to fight with Sherlock, not when they've been targeted by what seems like a very dangerous person. He turned around and gave a quick wave to Greg before following after John who was already leaving the building.

~~~~~~~~

_"Hello?"_

_"Hello again, Mycroft."_

_"What do you want?"_

_"Have I ever told you how much I like your brother's jacket?"_

_"....What are you talking about?"_

_"I'm watching him walk down the street and I simply love how it moves with the wind."_

_"What are you do--"_

_"He seems to have a companion with him, did you know about this?"_

_"..."_

_"John...Watson...I believe he's called."_

_"Whatever you are planning to do--"_

_"I don't think I've ever met Sherlock and John in person."_

_"If you touch Sherlock Holmes..."_

_The low, rumbling chuckle was heard again._

_"Oh no, no, Mycroft, you misunderstand. I'm going to do much more than touch him."_

_"You are aware of you are talking to, right?"_

_"Of course, I'm talking to the British government. Do you know who you are talking to?"_

_"Yes, I do, and it makes me sick."_

 

_"Lucky for you, this conversation won't be going on any longer. Goodbye Mycroft, and do keep a look out on the news tonight, you might like the new story."_

Before Mycroft could utter a word, the call was disconnected. Mycroft rubbed his head and thought about what he was going to do next.

 


	24. Chapter 24

Mycroft sat in his chair and thought. He had to tell somebody, clearly he wasn't doing a good job at handling the situation like he thought originally. He had hoped to get rid of that man before the problem got even worse, but he didn't learn from Moriarty, apparently. Now he had to worry about a deranged killer hunting Sherlock and John down in the middle of the night when they are probably alone right now. Mycroft could be the coldest person in the world, but when it came to his little brother, people better watch out. Even though he didn't approve of John coming into Sherlock's life because he knew that his brother gets attached easily, even though he doesn't admit to it and if something were to happen to him, he was sure that Sherlock wouldn't forgive him. Not seeing any other choice, he picked his phone back up and started dialing John's number. 

 

John was walking ahead of Sherlock but he would always turn around to see if he was keeping up and didn't get distracted, or if the killer got to him. It's not going to happen, it just isn't. If they want to mess with John Watson then they are welcomed to it. He didn't go into the war with no skills. John was so focused on Sherlock that he almost didn't feel his phone vibrating in his pocket. He fished it out and looked at the caller id. He scoffed, Mycroft, of course, he's the type of person to call at the most stressful time. 

 

"What do you want now?" 

 

"John, before you go on another one of your rants, listen to me. You and Sherlock are in danger." 

 

John stopped walking and Sherlock followed John so that they were both standing in the middle of the oddly empty street. They weren't far from Baker Street, which was a quiet neighborhood, but still, it wasn't that late, there should be some activity going on. 

 

"What do you mean in danger?" 

 

"The killer, John." 

 

John's face contorted into a wry smile.

 

"How do you know about this, you don't seem like the type to sit around watching telly, and I haven't talked to you in a few weeks, and I know Lestrade didn't call you." 

 

"That's not important. What is important is that you get out of the street before he finds you." 

 

John's mouth tightened but he knew that Mycroft was right, they can fight about this later. He looked back at Sherlock.

 

"Come on Sherlock, we have to get back home. Now." 

 

"Isn't that where we were heading anyway?" 

 

"I mean we have to double-time it. It's not safe." 

 

Sherlock heard the tone of John's voice change. The menace was there, along with a sense of fear and maybe even slight panic. He wasn't too sure who he was on the phone with, he had a guess that it was Mycroft, but then again, it looked like John didn't get along  with him too well. It could be Greg, but he just finished talking to them so there is no need for him to call, unless they really were in danger and the killer was near their location. 

 

"Alright, what now." 

 

"What do you mean?" Mycroft responded. 

 

"Don't you have your little spy cameras hooked up somewhere?" John was clearly irritated, as he rightfully should be. He was protecting Sherlock and himself from harm and possibly death. 

 

"If by spy camera you mean the CCTV cameras, then yes. There should be several honing in on your position right now, just give me a moment...yes...I can see you, look up to your right." 

 

Sherlock followed John's head as he spun around to see the camera wriggling around like it was trying to do some type of dance. 

 

"Now look to your left." 

 

John's head whirred around to see the identical camera repeat the same gestures as the other did. For just a brief moment, John was actually grateful for Mycroft's presence. He knew that just like himself, Mycroft would never let anything happen to Sherlock, not if he could do anything to stop it. Sherlock was the only thing that he seemed to care about, even if he couldn't even properly express that right. But he knew. John knew that he loved Sherlock, he was just...not as willing as John to publicly show affection for him. John was still cautious. Mycroft can only do so much, he wasn't physically in the street with them. Without turning to face him, John motioned for Sherlock to continue walking with him, to which he didn't object. John was clearly on the edge. 

 

"Tell me you have your gun on you, John." 

 

"Yeah, I took it just in case." He replied to Mycroft. 

 

"Good." 

 

Mycroft was staring at the screens with such intensity, he hoped that John and Sherlock could almost feel his eyes on them. Big Brother is watching. 

 

The next few minutes where spent in relative silence, Mycroft was still on the phone and would remain there until they returned to Baker Street because he knows that the killer wouldn't be stupid enough to kill them in their homes. As soon as John and Sherlock turned the next corner, Mycroft saw one of his camera screens go black. 

 

"What the hell....?" 

 

He started fidgeting with the controls, but to no avail. Then as quick as the first one cut off, the other did too. Mycroft was beginning to see that somebody was destroying the camera intentionally, and there was only one person that would do such a thing. Alarmed he opened his mouth and said, "He's breaking my cameras, John. Get Sherlock and yourself out of there NOW." 

 

"You don't need to tell me twice." 

 

John pulled his gun out from behind his back, as he had it tucked in his pants and started running. Mycroft heard the labored breathing from both men and felt his heart quickening. He could hear their footsteps against the pavement, each step faster than the other. Mycroft was so sure that they were home because their footsteps stopped. 

 

"Wh---" He heard John stop. 

 

There was dead silence and Mycroft gripped the arm of his chair so tight, his knuckles were turning white.

~~~~~~~~  
John and Sherlock halted, as they saw a strange man creeping near them. He looked like a normal person, denim jeans, boots, plaid shirt, and a simple leather jacket. His hair was swept to one side, the moonlight shining on it. It was brown. His blue eyes were dark, minus the night sky enhancing their effect. His mouth was drawn and forming the straightest line on his face. His face was sullen, drawn. It reminded John of Moriarty, the way he could pass for a normal person to everyone else, but if you truly watched him, you would see the crazy in his eyes. You would see how dead and lifeless his eyes look, how he looks so coldly towards the word. You would know the true psychopath that it Jim Moriarty. 

 

"Well well, if it isn't Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson." 

 

Sherlock was the first to speak. 

 

"Who are you?" 

 

The man moved like he was offended. 

 

"Really? Your brother, hasn't told you about me?" 

 

John felt his body burning. He knew Mycroft had something to do with this. Why else would he call to warn John? 

 

"The name is Sebastian Moran." 

 

His voice was deep, but it was raspy and intimidating and it sent shivers up John's spine. 

 

"What do you want?" John snarled. 

 

"Oh that's very simple. I want to kill Sherlock Holmes." 

 

John's hand clenched on the handle of his gun. 

 

"Do you?" 

 

Sebastian nodded. 

 

"He killed Jim. I think it only seems right if he pays for his death in blood." 

 

"Who's Jim?" 

 

"Jim Moriarty. The greatest man I ever known. You killed him when it was you that should've been dead. The wrong person died that day, and I aim to make sure that it's fixed." 

 

"But what about the killer, is that you?" 

 

Sebastian scoffed and rolled his eyes. 

 

"Oh no, that's not how I would do it. I'm more of a...gun person. I have your killer right here." 

 

He whistled and in no time, a man who looked crazier than he did came from the shadows with a bloody knife and a twisted smile on his face. He was staring John and Sherlock down. Without warning, Sebastian pulled out his own gun and shot the killer dead. The other men were shook and inched closer towards one another as Sebastian killed somebody in cold blood. 

 

"I believe that the case is closed now since your killer is dead. I only needed him to get your attention, and now I have it. His job is done." 

 

"JESUS CHRIST!" 

 

John pulled out his handgun and had it pointed at Sebastian now. Sherlock wasn't sure what to do so he stayed behind. Sebastian's stance was defensive and he was seconds away from the pulling the trigger. 

 

"My problem isn't with you, John. But since you pulled out your gun, it is now." 

 

John shrugged as he looked back at Sherlock and then at Sebastian. 

 

"You're not going to hurt him, I  _will_  kill you." 

 

Sebastian sighed and shook his head. 

 

"It seems that some people always want to play the hero. But I got news for you John, sometimes the hero dies."   
~~~~~~~  
Mycroft heard two gunshots, and then Sherlock shouting "JOHN!" before the phone got disconnected. Not wasting anytime, he dialed another number and waited for the person to answer. 

 

"Hello?" 

 

"Greg, there have been shots fired, get back-up and head there now! Sherlock and John need urgent care!"  

 


	25. Chapter 25

"W-What do you mean? Where are they?" 

 

 

"About two blocks away from Baker Street. They were attacked by the killer, send for paramedics as well." 

 

He heard Greg mutter, "Aw...shit....I'm on my way." 

 

Just like that he hung up. Mycroft rested his phone down on the table and rested his face onto his hands. This is the second time he's done this, he's tried to stop somebody from hurting his brother, both times he failed and both times his brother's life was in danger. Those gunshots were what worried him beyond belief, it could have been anybody that got hit, Sherlock could have gotten shot, or they both could have, since there were two. Sebastian was very dangerous, just as dangerous as his employer, and quite possibly his lover, what with the way he was so protective of him. Sebastian was there, he was the sniper that was focused on John. He placed him there especially, his job was to "burn the heart out of Sherlock", and John Watson was his heart. Mycroft warned him, he told him caring wasn't an advantage, but because he spent so long trying to force Sherlock to be like him, Sherlock wanted nothing to do with him anymore. He wasn't the little kid with the over-sized dressing gown and the big mop of curls and that bright smile that could make anybody's day. He was the adult whose warm heart turned into ice because of the years he spent being taunted, mocked, bullied, and ignored, and of trying to be like his older brother. Now he could possibly be dead for all Mycroft knew, and he would have to live with that forever. 

~~~~~~~~~~  
John and Sebastian shot their guns at the same time. Sherlock was careful to move out of the way, but he was still scared out of his mind. John was a crack-shot and so his aim was more precise, but Sebastian was a sniper and so they both just as good with a gun. John's bullet hit Sebastian first, it went straight into his chest, he collapsed to the floor, dropping the pistol on the way down. John was luckier than Sebastian. He grabbed his shoulder in pain and then fell to his knees, and then finally hit the floor, also dropping his weapon. 

 

"JOHN!" Sherlock yelled as he ran over to him. He saw John's blood pooling around his body, there was so much of it. 

 

_"Sherlock don't---."_

He held his head as that rang through his head. He felt a sharp pain for a moment before it faded. He shook his head and focused back on John who was holding his bloody shoulder and trying his best to stay awake. 

 

_"He's my friend...please...he's my friend...let me through..."_

That's John's voice. He remembered hearing him say that....

 

"S-Sherlock..." 

 

Sherlock bent down and propped John up so that he was in his arms, he placed his gloved hand on top of John's to stop the bleeding. As he was staring into John's eyes, he saw tears forming in them. 

 

_"This is what people do, right? Leave a note?"_

_"Leave a note when?"_

Sherlock took his hand off of the other's for a moment to stroke his cheek. 

 

"Please, don't die John, not my John, you can't die." 

 

John just chuckled. 

 

"I'm not sure if I can keep that promise, Sherlock." 

 

Sherlock felt tears coming to his own eyes as he stroked the soft cheek, he saw that he got a bit of blood on it. He saw John's hand that wasn't on his wound slowly and shakily reach up to touch his wrist and that triggered something in Sherlock because he immediately felt extreme pain and placed a hand on his head as he tried to make it go away. 

 

"NO!!!" 

~~~~~~~~

_Sherlock looked down at the body that was laying before him, his brains were blown out , as he pulled out his gun and did the deed as he was shaking hands with him. Sherlock was unnerved by the sudden action and started breathing quickly. He looked up at the sky, the sky was grey. It looked like it might rain soon, but that doesn't matter. What mattered was that his friends were safe. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and John. John is all that mattered, he would give his life up to protect him, and it seems like that was the only option right now. Wiping his mouth he pulled out his phone for his last call. It was John who answered._

_"Sherlock are you okay?" He was frantic, worried, not sure about what was to come next. Sherlock couldn't handle this._

_"Turn around and walk back the way you came." He had to do this, John Watson was in danger._

_"No, I'm coming in."_

_He was always stubborn._

_"Just. Do as I ask. Please."_

_His voice was choking with tears._

_He saw John looking all around for his friend._

_"Where?"_

_"Stop there."_

_John sounded like he was getting angry. Sherlock wasn't surprised, it was how he always dealt with panic._

_"Sherlock."_

_"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."_

_John looked up and saw him standing there, talking to him on the phone. Sherlock could hear his exasperated breath like he lost it for a moment before thinking about what to say next._

_"Oh god."_

_Sherlock felt the tears making their way down his cheeks._

_"I-I-I can't come down so we'll just have to do it like this."_

_"What's going on?"_

_"An apology. It's all true."_

 

_He could see his friend's heart breaking all at once and he couldn't stand it._

_"What?"_

_"Everything they said about me. I'm a fake."_

_How it hurt to see John receive that news. But it had to be done. It had to._

_"Sherlock--."_

_"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own."_

_All he wants is John to stop believing in him. To  stop trusting him so he could make this easier._

_"Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met---the first time we met---you knew all about my sister, right?"_

_"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything I could to impress you. It's a trick. It's all just a magic trick."_

_John didn't believing it. Sherlock couldn't believe that this was the first time he actually cursed John's loyalty to him. Why can't see what's happening? Why does he still chose to trust him?_

_"No. Alright, stop it now."_

_He started to move closer, but Sherlock stopped him by holding out his hand, and seeing that John was doing the same._

_"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move."_

_"Alright." John sighed in resignation. He was starting to see that he couldn't stop this now. He had to watch his friend commit suicide. He had to watch him die._

_"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" His voice is beginning to crack._

_"Do what?"_

_"This phone call, it's...it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."_

_John's voice was hesitant._

_"Leave a note when?"_

_Through the heavy tears, Sherlock forced out, "Goodbye, John."_

_The last thing he could hear on the phone was, "No. Don't---."_

_Then he remembered jumping off, there was a...cushion of some sort that he had to land on, but something went wrong and he remembered feeling a lot of pain. He heard John's voice in the distance shouting, "Let me through. He's my friend..."  He felt his fingers wrap around his wrist for a brief moment, but that was just about it. Everything went black._

_Now he sees John, in different outfits in different places, all of them saying his name softly, "Sherlock..."_

_He sees Lestrade, he sees Molly in the morgue, and he sees Mycroft. They're all saying his name and he recognizes them, vaguely, but he has enough to remember._

~~~~~~~

He opened his eyes and started breathing heavily in and out and looked down at John, who was calling his name softly, the wound on his shoulder giving him blood loss and a lot of it. 

 

"S-Sherlock...." 

 

"I remember you. You're John Watson....my John...." 

 

John's pale lips curled into a smile as his free hand rose up to touch Sherlock's. He couldn't help it, he started crying, no, sobbing at the touch. 

 

"You're my John Watson, you're my everything and I remember you. Please don't die, John, I can't be Sherlock Holmes without John Watson, please! You're my blogger, you're my doctor, you're my friend! I love you John, remember that? Remember when you said you loved me?! You can't say something like that and die! John Watson isn't supposed to die, we're supposed to be together until the end! I can't lose you now when I remember you again! PLEASE DON'T DIE!" 

 

Just then, Sherlock could hear the faint blare of the sirens and knew that Greg was coming to get them. John's eyes were half-lidded and he needed to get to the hospital soon or he wouldn't....No. He WILL make it. 

 

"You hear that, John?" He squeezed his hand that felt so limp. 

 

"That's Lestrade, he's coming to get us, he's going to save you. Please hang on, John....if you die, I'll have nobody left...don't leave me alone....please I can't be alone again." 

 

John's lips spread apart as he started speaking, his lips were quivering. 

 

"Y-you're m-my S-S-Sherl...." 

 

"Shhh, don't talk...there will be plenty of time for that later, just not now." 

 

John's head slowly started shaking, as if he was disagreeing. 

 

"N-no..."

 

"Yes, John, you're going to live! You promised me you won't abandon me!" 

 

"I-I-I...l-l-love....y-y-you...." 

 

Sherlock's hand gripped tightly around John's wrist, staining it with blood. Sherlock wanted to be strong, but he wasn't. He won't be able to live without his John. 

 

"If you really loved me you would stay alive!" 

 

The sirens got louder and Sherlock looked back to see that there were at least five police cars, along with an ambulance parked in the middle of the street. In the first car, Lestrade and Sally came out with guns in their hand, and then the other cops followed. 

 

"FAN OUT, MAKE SURE THE KILLER DIDN'T GET AWAY!" Greg shouted. 

 

"LESTRADE!" Sherlock called out. Greg looked over and saw him holding a bloody, and dangerously wounded Watson in his arms. The doctor was very pale and was barely breathing. Sherlock was bawling his eyes out and grasping to him for dear life. 

 

"Please help him!" 

 

"GET THE PARAMEDICS, NOW!" 

 

He was shaken but the pain in Sherlock's eyes brought him back on track. In no time the paramedics came wheeling out a gurney for John. They picked him up as gently as they could and laid him out on it. The female was pressing down on his wound so that he wouldn't lose anymore blood and holding an oxygen mask on his face. Greg knelt down to face Sherlock and said, "He's going to be okay, he's going to be fine..." 

 

"I want to go with him!" 

 

"You can't ride in the ambulance with him because of the severity of the wound. I'll drive you there right now." 

 

Realizing that Sherlock was too distraught to stand, he put the gun away and helped him to his feet. 

 

"Sally, you're in charge while I take him to the hospital." 

 

"But sir!" 

 

"DON'T ARGUE WITH ME!" 

 

She didn't speak but instead gave a nod before rushing off with the other officers. Supporting Sherlock, Greg opened the passenger door and slowly sat him down. 

 

"That's it....take it easy...." 

 

"John...." Sherlock whimpered. 

 

"I know, Sherlock....I know." 

 

He dashed over to the driver's side and seated himself and started the car. In his head, he was silently praying that John made it there on time and that nothing happened along the way. He would hate to see Sherlock's reaction. 

 

"Alright, off we go..." 


	26. Chapter 26

_"Somebody get me a medic! John Watson is hit, I repeat, John Watson is hit! Enemy fire!"_

_The voice sounded like it was in water, everything was hazy and the burning sensation in his arm grew as he saw spots. He tried to look around so he knew that he was still alive, that there was still life in him yet. He could hear the grenades going off, he could hear the sounds of men getting shot and falling to the ground, some of them were lucky and got grazed, but others....God has to make room for one more. He could've sworn he knew that voice that was shouting for help. Through his blurred vision, he saw brown. Hair, it was certainly hair, it was one of his assistants. He helped him in the infirmary tent when it just got too crowded._

_"Get me a medic now! I don't care who, John Watson has been caught in the enemy fire, do you understand?! He is very badly wounded in his left shoulder, he will bleed out and die if he does not get immediate medical attention!"_

_He was a good man. His name was...Thomas....or something. To be honest, John never really knew anybody's name save for Sholto. He always called them by their ranks, as it showed more respect to that person._

_John tried to hang on for as long as he could, held his own wound, ignored the taste and smell of blood, breathed in and out. But he was slipping....everything was fading into black.....  
~~~~~~~~~~_

_Beep....Beep....Beep...._

"Patient John Watson is stabilized, blood loss is halted, heart rate is normal...." 

 

John could hear the familiar noise of a hospital while he was resting. When he opened his eyes he only confirmed it. He was in Barts no less. He saw a doctor and his nurse discussing the severity of his wound to the side of him. They didn't notice he was awake then. He was sore, more so on the left side of his body. He shifted his head to see that his shoulder was covered in gauze with the little spot of blood in the middle. He let out a deep sigh as he remembered what happened. He's going to have double the scars now, seeing as he already got shot in the same area years before. 

 

"Is he going to be alright?" 

 

That voice was familiar. It was Greg's voice! He remembered hearing Sherlock say that he was on his way, but he was too far gone to comprehend what he was saying. 

 

"Yes, he'll be fine, he just needs a few days rest when he gets home before he starts going to work or being active." 

 

Greg nodded and turned to look at the injured doctor (the irony in that) and saw that he was staring back at him. 

 

"Oh, thank god, you're awake." 

 

This got the doctor's attention and he faced John as well. He had something that resembled a smirked, but it was more of relief than of happiness. If John had to guess, it was because he didn't lose a patient. John can totally agree with him. Seeing as though Greg would want some personal space, the doctor stepped out of the room with the nurse following behind him. Greg looked like a wreck, he had his jacket draped over his arm and his shirt was all disheveled, as was his hair. It was like he was living off of coffee rushes while waiting for John to wake up. 

 

"Greg...what happened? Where's Sherlock?" 

 

Greg smiled. 

 

"Well, you got shot, by Sebastian Moran who you killed shortly before getting hurt. Mycroft phoned me and told me to bring the paramedics because he heard gunshots on your phone. We found you practically dying in Sherlock's arms, but we got you here just in the nick of time." 

 

"Right. I know that much, but where's Sherlock?" 

 

"What, you couldn't feel the extra weight in your bed? I would have at least thought you would feel his curls brushing up against your chin." 

 

John's brows furrowed as he turned to the right side and saw Sherlock, no coat or jacket on, curled up in the bed with him, fast asleep. 

 

"He refused to leave you alone after your surgery was done. So doc and I decided it was best for him to stay with you." 

 

John smiled to himself as he brought a kiss to the top of the sleeping man's head. He rested his hand on the curls and started to gently stroke his hair, causing Sherlock to smile and curl up even more. 

 

"Whenever you're ready, you can come talk to me about this whole...ordeal. I stayed to make sure he was okay."

 

John nodded. 

 

"Sure thing, Greg." 

 

"Get well." 

 

He gave John's leg a slap and then turned to leave the room. John took the opportunity to stare at Sherlock while he slept. He has been sleeping for quite a while to be so deep in slumber, John could see that. He could even hear him slightly snoring, which Sherlock never did unless he was truly tired. He must've been so relieved when he found out that John was going to be okay, John never wants to see that look of fear and pain in Sherlock's eyes ever again. He pressed his lips against the detective's head again and just enjoyed the company. Then Mycroft walked in. 

 

_'Jesus. I don't have the strength to yell at him right now.'_

He had that smug smirk on his face that John just wanted to punch but couldn't. Upon seeing his brother sleeping the bed, an eyebrow rose, but then his face reverted back to the coldness that Mycroft was known for possessing. 

 

"John, I---." 

 

"Shut up." 

 

Mycroft stopped in his tracks. 

 

"Excuse me?" 

 

"You heard me. Shut up." 

 

"....May I ask why?" 

 

"Don't pl---just don't, okay? You know what you did. You sent another dangerous killer after your brother who couldn't remember a damn thing and then had the gall to act like you were saving the day by calling the paramedics and Scotland Yard, when in reality you only did it because you felt guilty and wanted to find some way to repent. When's the other time you did this? Oh yes, when Moriarty was running rampant and setting your brother up to look like a fraud, because of the information you fed him that you thought would magically make everything okay. It's not, Mycroft, just because you are the British government, or whatever, doesn't mean you can just control people's lives because chances are, you're only making them worse!" 

 

Everything seemed to be silenced as Mycroft absorbed John's rant. John was breathing in and out because he ran out while he was talking and his shoulder was getting sore. All Mycroft had to say was, "...I understand that I have not...handled my little brother's situations....the greatest....but I only want him to be safe, since he doesn't seem to know what the word means." 

 

"I get that, I do. But you need to learn how to let him do what he wants and only jump in when he asks you." 

 

"He's never going to ask me to help him." 

 

"I don't know what to tell you then Mycroft. This relationship you guys have is only going to get worse, believe me, I have the same issue with my sister." 

 

"So I think you're hardly the one to talk."

 

John didn't want to continue this any longer if Mycroft was too stubborn to listen, then what was the point of wasting his breath? Mycroft sighed. 

 

"But I digress, John I came here because I wanted to thank you for helping my brother get his memory back, I'm just sorry that it almost cost you your life." 

 

"Yeah well. I wasn't doing it for you, I did it for him." 

 

"Oh, I'm sure." 

 

Mycroft stalked over to Sherlock and ran a hand through his thick curls. John saw that his face saddened and there seemed to be a sort of nostalgic look in his eyes and John couldn't help but feel bad for him. There is something very wrong with the way this family showed affection and it showed very clearly on Sherlock how badly it affected him. Without saying a word, Mycroft left the room, umbrella twirling in his hand like usual. John was alone with Sherlock alone again. 

 

"You're okay...." 

 

John looked to see that Sherlock was awake now, though his eyes still read fatigue. 

 

John nodded. 

 

"Yeah, yeah, I'm okay, Sherlock. I'm alright." 

 

Sherlock propped himself on his elbow. 

 

"I remembered you, your blood, you grabbing my wrist, Sebastian getting shot in the head...I remember...." 

 

"I know, Sherlock. Don't try to talk about it." 

 

"Moriarty. He wanted to kill you, all of my friends, He told me that the only way to save you was..." 

 

"Yes, Sherlock." 

 

"I was so....scared.....when Sebastian shot you, John. You were so close to dying and I didn't want you to die. Not my John." 

 

John's hand rose and he placed it on Sherlock's cheek. His smile was warmer and he ignored any pain that he was feeling at the moment because Sherlock was still worried about John's health. It was especially heartwarming because he knew that Sherlock didn't show this much affection for just anybody. He only saved that for John. His John. 

 

"Sherlock you're an idiot, you know that right?" 

 

Sherlock's brow rose. 

 

"How so?" 

 

"I told you that I would never abandon you, no matter what." 

 

Sherlock laughed. Good, the tension was breaking. But the laughter was short-lived and pretty soon there was just a lot of staring. Sherlock's eyes staring right into John's soul and John's eyes enthralling Sherlock. John's hand slowly made its way from Sherlock's cheek, to his smooth and perfect lips. Sherlock's eyes were half-lidded as John's fingers traced the outline of his mouth, it tickled a bit. John found himself biting his lips as his fingers traveled the beauty that is Sherlock's mouth. He found himself wanting them. He didn't want to touch them any longer, he wanted the feel of them against his, he wanted to feel the heat of Sherlock's breath in his. He wanted their tongues to dance around until they separated for oxygen. From Sherlock's face, it was clear he wanted the same thing. But what caused this? Surely these feelings didn't pop out of the blue, did they develop during this whole ordeal with Sherlock's memory loss? His hand cups Sherlock's chin and he brings his mouth closer to his. It isn't until their lips connect that John pieces this together. 

 

Those feelings were always there. It just took for all of this to happen for John to finally recognize it. 

 

He loved Sherlock Holmes. 

 

And since Sherlock wasn't exactly his usual self, he showed more emotion. And everybody else picked up on it before he did, because he was a stubborn jackass who denied every emotion he felt about Sherlock. 

 

Their breaths were uneven and ragged as they savored the taste of each other. John felt his wound throbbing and the burning sensation came back. He could ignore it for a while, but he would need painkillers soon. His hand let go of Sherlock's chin and moved the mass of curls resting on top of his and ran his hand through them, finally grabbing a handful and softly pulling them as he pressed down on Sherlock's lips. It felt euphoric, he never would have expected this, not in a million years. He would have never pictured falling in love with the most brilliant mind he has ever had the good fortune of knowing. It seemed like an eternity before they pulled apart, both hopelessly out of breath. 

 

"I'm so glad you remember me again. It killed me inside to see how much you struggled." 

 

"I struggled to remember you, John. Because even though I didn't know who you were, I felt that you were the only thing worth remembering." 

 

John felt his eyes glossing over. That's practically Sherlock saying that he loved John. And John's heart was practically swelling. 

 

"I love you." Came out of John's mouth so quickly that he didn't even know that it was his voice that said it. They were both surprised, but then Sherlock's face softened and a smile crept on his face. 

 

"Some war hero you are. You're just a walking teddy bear." 

 

John couldn't help but laugh, there was every reason to. Sure he was in the hospital, but he was alive, and he got his Sherlock back. Now that Sherlock had his memories back, their job was to give him new ones. Everlasting. And as their fingers intertwined with each other the only words that came out of their mouths was, 

 

"My John." 

 

"My Sherlock." 

 

And that's all that needed to be said.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if this ending is bad, I tried to make it fluffy but I'm not that great at fluff. 
> 
> Don't worry, I'll be making another fic soon! 
> 
> Thank you, everybody, for reading it as well as leaving kudos!


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